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A Sleep-Walker 

By Paul H. Gerrard. 

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A SLEEP-WALKER. 











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A SLEEP-WALKER 


/ 

21 A one l . 



PAUL H. GERRARD. 



ILLUSTRATED BY WARREN B. DAVIS. 






FEB 26 1894 


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PUBLISHERS. 


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COPYRIGHT, 1880, 1893 and 1894, 

BY ROBERT BONNER’S SONS. 

(All rights reserved.) 

I 


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A SLEEP-WALKER 


CHAPTER I. 

"THE HEIR IS CAST AWAY. 

4 4 AVE us all ! It ’s come at last ! There ’s the Basin 
Ghost!” 

I J Mr. Timothy Titlow raised himself on his elbows, 
and with many inward tremors looked fixedly at an 
object appearing between himself and the sky. 

First, a head in a large hood. 

Next, cloaked shoulders. 

Then, the full-length figure of a woman holding a bundle, 
and standing between Mr. Titlow and the broad shield of the 
summer moon, hanging low. 

The position of Mr. Titlow was far from salubrious. Despite 
the dew, he had been lying on his back on the grass. 

Despite, also, the theories of the unhealthfulness of. bodies 
of fresh water in the night time, Mr. Titlow was at his usual 
haunt — the top of the great Reservoir at Willesden. 

The mighty earth and mason work towered up like a fort, 
and on its green margin Mr. Titlow was paid to pace a nightly 
round. 

Intent on mischief? 

No ; not he ! Mr. Titlow valiantly asserted, both to friends 
and foes, that he was “ as honest a fellow as ever wore a skin,” 
which exhaustive definition of himself no one had been found to 
gainsay. 

Mr. Titlow had made his present business engagement with 
fear and trembling, for there prevailed a tradition that the 
Willesden reservoir was haunted. Here had been a spot where 


8 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


four ways met, and on the cross-roads in the brutal ages — not so 
very long past — they had buried a suicide, with a stake through 
her heart. The ghost of this woman was popularly supposed to 
haunt the scene of her unchristian burial, and Mr. Titlow had 
long expected to confront her. 

And now it had come. 

Lying on his back, happy, not thinking of ghosts, his eye 
caught a small, dark shadow on the opposite side of the Basin. 

It grew darkly against the night-time blue and silver — and 
Timmy Titlow perceived a female figure — and lifting himself on 
his elbows he glared dumbly at the ghost. 

Shouting and screaming are generally follies ; but it would 
have been worth a deal if Titlow had just then indulged in these 
exercises. 

He stared and was mute. So was the shadow on the further 
side of the Reservoir. 

Then, Timmy Titlow being a common-sense fellow, it grew 
into his mind that this figure was too solid for a ghost ; that 
the draperies were too dark for a spirit ; that there was an earthi- 
ness and reality about the whole vision that demolished the super- 
stitious idea. 

“I believe it’s a woman” said Timmy. “ What is she here 
for? For no good, I’ll be bound. I’ll go round and warn 
her away. Has she come to commit suicide ? Save us all ! In 
the London drinking water ! If she sees me she may jump. I ’ll 
crawl. ” 

Timmy was just about to begin a long and tedious progress 
through the damp grass, when a lower, dark shadow grew be- 
hind the first — and all at once the woman figure raised her arms 
bearing the bundle into the air. Titlow had scarcely seen that 
the bundle was a babe in white night-clothes, when the woman 
hurled it from her, and with tiny, helpless arms spread out, it 
flashed like a a little white meteor through the air, and down 
under the water. 

At once Titlow leaped to his feet. Not being a swimmer, his 
instinct was to dash for help to the cabin of the Reservoir police, 
situated just below the embankment on the side nearest herself. 
He merely saw that the woman’s figure disappeared down the em- 
bankment almost as moderately as it had come into view. 

Timmy Titlow burst into the little room where a couple of 


THE HEIR IS CAST AWAY. 


9 


policemen were dozing, one on a bench and one in an arm-chair. 

“ Come away, boys ! Here ’s a woman ’s flung a baby into the 
Basin. Come get it out 1” 

“Where's the woman V' demanded the man in the chair, 
springing up fully awake, and rushing out with Titlow. The 
policeman on the bench caught a grappling-iron and a coil of 
rope and pursued his comrades. 

“ The woman !” cried Titlow, toiling, breathless, up the steep 
ascent. “We’ll catch her — but let’s get the baby out 
first.” 

The three were presently at the spot where Titlow had seen 
the terrible occurrence. Not a living creature was in sight. The 
water of the Basin, as if recently disturbed, lapped against the 
sides, the soft sounds clearly audible in the intense stillness of 
the night ; under the clear moonlight also the waters appeared 
rippled. 

Titlow’s comrade, pulling off coat and boots, leaped into 
the Basin, striking out for the center. 

“Hunt the woman, Titlow !” he shouted; and Titlow obeyed 
by running all around the embankment, and saw not a living or 
moving thing. One moment he did think he discerned a low, 
dark shadow gliding swiftly toward some work-people’s homes 
outside the Reservoir grounds ; but the next second it was lost, 
and Titlow regarded it as a mere freak of his eyes, especially as 
the people of those houses were all quiet and decent — above 
suspicion. 

The second policeman, reaching the Basin with his grapple, 
pushed off a little boat that lay moored against the side, and 
taking in his wet brother, the two rowed over the whole surface 
of the Reservoir. They searched the depths with the grapple, 
but did not find a single trace of the child which Titlow averred 
had been cast therein. 

“-Do you believe it’s a hoax?” asked one of the other. 

“ No — Titlow was in dead earnest.” 

“ Then he must have been dreaming. Ho, Titlow, have you 
seen anything of the woman ?” 

Timmy, pausing in his search, replied: 

“ Not a sign !” 

The men pulled to the bank. 

“ Tell us the whole thing.” 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


IO 

Timmy graphically related his experiences, not omitting that 
at first he deemed the sight a ghost. 

“ Tim, have you been drinking?” 

“ Never drink. ,y 

“ Sure you were not dreaming ?” 

“ Wide awake as I am now,” asserted Titlow, stoutly. 

‘ ‘But, see here, my man. Where could the woman have got 
to, just while you were coming for us? And more than all, where 
could the baby have got to ? Not a sign of its clothes floating — 
and we have searched well in the Reservoir.” 

“It was a very little baby,” said Tim. “I saw it fall — it is 
in some corner of the Basin.” 

“ Then it ’s dead by this time. However, we ’ll go search all 
around the embankment, and in the morning we ’ll report to 
the chief ; but it’s our belief, Titlow, that lying, as you were, on 
the ground instead of pacing the path, as you ought, you fell 
asleep, and had a remarkably lively dream.” 

“ I was broad awake — and hadn’t been lying over five or ten 
minutes, just to rest my legs.” 

“ Well, we ’ll look matters up again in the morning,” said the 
policeman, and with Timothy Titlow, night-watchman, they care- 
fully — and fruitlessly — examined all the neighborhood of Willes- 
den Basin. 

The next morning’s examination proved just as poor in results, 
and the opinion that Mr. Titlow had been napping and dreaming 
gained ground in the minds of all who heard his story. True, he 
told the story vigorously and positively, but where was the proof? 

The Reservoir was carefully searched — not only dragged, but 
a diver went down to examine it. It was innocent of all trace of 
the baby which Mr. Titlow saw hurled into it. 

The story did not find its way to the newspapers until the 
second day. Then a modest paragraph hinted that a night- 
watchman by the Willesden Basin had asserted that he saw a 
woman fling a child into the water, but that it was fully proved 
that the man had been dreaming, the water having been carefully 
searched without affording any corroboration of the tale. 

Two persons who lived within a mile of the Willesden Basin 
could have entirely cleared up Mr. Titlow’s story, but for differ- 
ent reasons — neither of these persons being known to the other — 
they dared not speak. 


THE HEIR IS CAST AWAY. 


1 1 


The silence of the one party was painless, and soon ended in the 
profounder silence of death. 

The silence of the other was a life-long pain. 

About three-quarters of a mile from Willesden Basin was the 
mansion of the late Sir Giles Barth ; a magnificent modern abode, 
for Sir Giles’s title had been a recent one, while his fortune was 
a handsome fifteen thousand pounds a year. 

It was now but six months since Sir Giles had been placed in 
his family vault, and together with the shadow of death, despite 
the glitter of gold, a good many other shadows lay over his 
stately dwelling. 

The west wing of the mansion contained the room of Sir Giles’s 
only daughter ; the east wing held the private apartments of Sir 
Giles’s widow. 

Between these two sides of the house, while there had never 
been that war which could have given Barth House a name for 
being divided against itself, there had yet been constraint. 

Among the attendants of Miss Myra Barth was a Scotchwoman 
of fifty — Ailsa Wallace — who had nursed her young mistress from 
the hour of her birth with intense devotion. 

The first person in Miss Barth’s room in the morning was 
always Ailsa. Long before her young lady was waking, Ailsa 
was wont to steal to her chamber with anxious love. 

On the morning after Timmy Titlow’s dream, if dream it was, 
Ailsa crept as usual to Miss Barth’s apartment with the first rosy 
light. 

This was a household that took its own ways, one of them being 
to sleep late, and no one but Ailsa was stirring. 

Approaching half way to the bed, Ailsa stood regarding the 
young sleeper. 

Myra was just past twenty-one. 

As she lay with her head thrown back, her full, round chin 
slightly elevated, the heavy silken braids of light-brown hair 
swept over her pillow and hung nearly to the floor. 

Her chest and arms were beautifully formed. In sleep her 
fingers nervously gripped the bed-covers. Her brows and lashes 
were dark. And dark circles under her eyes, the tremor of her 
lovely lips and the lack of the rosy flush of youth in her face 
indicated the presence of some trouble unnatural to her age and 
station. 


12 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ My puir lassie !” said Ailsa, under her breath. 

Her eye wandered around the room in search of something 
which she could do to show her devotion, when her glance fell on 
an object that caused her to draw her breath with quick terror. 

Nothing so terrible in what she saw. Merely a great water- 
proof cloak on a chair, a pair of slippers on the floor, and on a 
stool a chintz gown, a petticoat with a ruffle and a pair of thread 
stockings. 

With an alarmed glance at the bed, Ailsa approached these 
articles. 

She picked up the slippers. The soles and the kid were marked 
with dew-wet earth. 

She threw the petticoat over her arm and gathered the ruffles in 
her hand. These also had clay stains. The chintz dress was 
unsoiled, but crumpled from being out in the moist night air. 

‘‘My ain lambie !” said Ailsa, looking mournfully at the well- 
grown girl, who sighed and tossed on the bed. “She’s been 
sleep-walking again. The verra first sin’ she were sixteen — no, 
fifteen year auld. Weel did I ken her heart was sore troubled. 
But she shanna know that she sleep-walkit. Mebby it would 
frichten her an’ set her on to do it again.” 

Ailsa brushed out the waterproof and hung it in the chest. 
The other clothing she carried to her own room and put them in 
her bureau-drawer, to be cleaned at her leisure. 


A little later in the morning, Lady Barth woke and lay for a 
while looking about her room. 

Through the door opening upon an ante-chamber she could see 
her attendant — a London nurse — asleep. 

“ Nurse ! Nurse !” cried Mrs. Barth. Her tones were never 
very strong even in health ; now they failed to rouse the woman ; 
and, pettishly catching hold of a cord near her, Mrs. Barth jan- 
gled the bell close over her guardian’s head. “Nurse, I want 
baby! / ’ m lonesome .” 

The words were like a pitiful wail. 

The nurse, being far too great a personage to go for the child, 
rang for an attendant; and Mrs. Barth had ample leisure to lie 
and reflect on the preciousness of the only being in the world 
which really belonged to her and on the arrival of the baby 
which could keep her from being lonesome, while the slow maid 


THE HEIR IS CAST AWAY. 


13 


was coming and receiving the order to go bring the little 
one. 

The maid, taking her time, as did every one in Barth House, 
went to a nursery which lay in the center of the building, ap- 
proached on either side by halls from the wings. 

Pounding on the door, she thrust in her head and called to a 
stout young woman who, in a great reclining-chair, was supposed 
to be watching over a cradle : 

“ Lady Barth wants the baby !” 

The nurse, as soundly asleep as if she had been in her bed, 
rubbed her eyes, sat up, looked about her and turned to the 
cradle. 

The cradle was empty ! 

Of course, it was only the woman’s stupidity that led her to 
shake the very curtains, pillows and blankets, as if the child might 
be hidden in them like a hop-o’-my-thumb, instead of a reasonably 
sized English infant. 

“ Pshaw !” she said. “ Nurse has found me asleep and carried 
off the babe to taunt me. Well, who can watch forever?” 

Instead, then, of going to her mistress’s room, she set about 
making her own morning toilet. 

Some time had elapsed, when hurried steps were heard in the 
hall, and Lady Barth’s nurse came in, flushed and angry. 

“ Why don’t you bring that child? His mother’s fretting for 
him no end ! Such a woman to dote on a baby I never saw ! 
Bring him at once !” 

She was shutting the door in indignation, when the child’s 
nurse screamed out : 

“ He isn’t here ! You ’ve got him yourself!” 

“ I ? Got the child ? You ’re crazy !” 

She went to the cradle and found it empty. The two looked 
at each other. 

“ Where is the babe?” screamed the senior nurse. 

“ I don’t know!” retorted the other. “I had my chair by 
the cradle all night, and I suppose by morning I dropped asleep, 
and when the maid came the babe was gone ; and I thought you 
had come in and taken him off to vex me for sleeping.” 

“ Not I. Some of the maids have played you that trick, and a 
sorry one, too, if it gives the child his death of cold. You’d 
best hunt him up, or I ’ll have his mother in a fever. Go, you ; 


n 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


find him ; and I ’ll tell her he ’s getting fed. Be quick, 
now !” 

The infant’s nurse now went off to find her missing charge. 
She looked through the house, questioned all the servants, and, 
consternated at getting no news, returned to tell the mother’s 
attendant that the child could not be found ! 

By this time every one was awake, Myra Barth among the rest, 
though the stir and search for the lost infant had not yet reached 
her rooms. 

The girl woke with a cry and a start, sat up, tossed back her 
hair, looked about as if light were hateful to her, and, hiding her 
face in the pillow, cried : “ Oh ! Oh !” as one in strong mental 
pain. 

Suddenly she lifted herself, and bending her brows, gazed at 
the chair and ottoman whence Ailsa had removed the clothing. 
With a look of relief at seeing these seats empty, her eye roved 
around the chamber, then she dropped back on her pillow, her 
arms over her head. 

“ Oh, dreadful, dreadful !” she sighed. “ What can be in 
me? I do not know myself any longer; my whole soul seems 
changed. This is a poor nature that cannot endure adversity !” 

The door opened to admit Ailsa. 

“ How are ye the morn’, my dearie?” she said, anxiously. 

“Well enough,” said Myra, indifferently, “but I’ve had a 
horrid night. I ’m as tired as if I had not slept, and I ’ve dreamed. 
Oh, Ailsa, how I have dreamed ! I had rather stay awake 
than dream so !” 

“ Never mind, hinny, it will not be so more,” said Ailsa, 
soothingly. 

“ And it seems this morning as if something were all wrong. 
My head whirls, my heart is heavy.” 

“You’ve caught a cold,” said Ailsa. “I’ll go fetch you 
some mint tea.” 

Going toward the kitchens, Ailsa was met by an under house- 
maid in high excitement. 

“ Ailsa, Ailsa, have you seen the baby ?” 

“The baby? Na, na! I’ve me ain baby to look after!” 
growled Ailsa, who had regarded the little stranger as an inter- 
loper and an enemy. 

“ But, Ailsa, the baby is lost !” 


THE HEIR IS CAST A WAV. 


J 5 


“ * Lost ?’ Ha’e dune wi’ yer hafflins !” 

“ But it is lost — gone from its cradle, and they have searched 
the house ; and if the mother gets news of it, she ’ll die. Oh, 
it ’s true, Ailsa !” 

The old woman may have had her own views of the impropriety 
of this baby’s appearance in the world, but she was not an unkind 
creature, and, assured that the girl was not jesting, she turned 
and ran to the nursery. 

There the two nurses, the housekeeper, the butler and one or 
two other servants were standing, looking dismay. 

The short story of the loss was explained to Ailsa. 

“ Ha’e ye looked weel to the fast’nin’s?” she said to the butler. 
“ Is there ony gipsies aboot ? Whiles I ha’e heerd tell of sic 
carryin’ aff a babe. Better set the men to search the grounds 
an’, by all means, keep the news frae his mither till ye fin’ him. 
Puir, feeble, young creature ! Like she ’ll die at a word !” 

“ The house was all well locked,” said the butler. “ I closed 
it myself, and hearing the trouble, I unclosed it myself. All was 
secure, Mrs. Wallace.” 

“ Search the place,” persisted Ailsa, “ and the lanes near.” 

Not forgetting her own child, as she called her, in the anxiety 
about the other, Ailsa Wallace turned once more toward the 
kitchen, when, mentally, and by some subtle association beyond 
her own apprehension, she put the two heirs of Sir Giles Barth 
together — Myra Barth and her baby half-brother. 

The old woman stopped short. Her face contracted as in a 
spasm. Up flew her hands to her quivering heart. She uttered 
a cry. Then, gasping, up ran Ailsa to her room, locked herself 
in, took out Myra’s clothes from the drawer, examined them once 
more with many an anguished groan, and locked them in the 
bottom of her trunk. 

All but the shoes. She hid them under her apron, carried 
them to an out-kitchen and cleaned them carefully. 

All the while she made a moan in her soul : 

“ My bairn, my puir bairn, ha’e ye gone so far as that ! I 
canna believe it ! But so or not so, these things shall ne’er testify 
against ye !” 

Carrying a cup of tea, and with the shoes still hidden, Ailsa 
returned to her idol. 

Myra was yet in bed, tossing restlessly. 


1 6 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ Ailsa,” she said, “ I dreamed — I dreamed I walked in my 
sleep last night.” 

“ Dinna think o’ thae things, hinny,” said Ailsa, taking occa- 
sion to slip the shoes in the shoe-bag. 

Still anxiety overcame her prudence. 

“ Whaur dreamed ye ye walked, hinny?” 

“ I don’t know. How can I tell ? There ! I didn’t dream at all. 

I ’m foolish — and nervous.” 

Here the young lady’s maid came in, and Myra put her feet 
to the floor and sat on the side of her bed. She spoke crossly: 

“ How late you are, Jane !” 

“ There ’s such excitement about the baby, Miss — ” 

“Is he sick?” interrupted Myra. 

“ Worse than that,” replied the maid. 

“What! Not dead, surely?” Miss Barth faltered. 

“Worse than that, in my view, Miss — ” 

“ ‘ Worse,’ girl ! What can be worse?” 

“Why, he’s lost / Lost entirely ! No one can find him.” 

“Lost!” Miss Barth grasped futilely for something, caught 
only by her pillows, and fell heavily to the floor. 

“ Out on ye !” cried Ailsa, who had been anxiously watching 
the interview. “To tell her sic news, so unprepared like — and 
she ill hersen, going intil a fever or something o’ that kind; an’ 
here’s the bit cup herb-tea I just brought her. Hanna ye ony 
sense, girl ?” 

They laid Myra back on the bed and began rubbing her 
hands and bathing her face. 

As Ailsa Wallace rubbed the soft right hand, she saw that the 
thumb and forefinger were slightly marked with just such clay as 
she cleaned from the young lady’s slippers. 

The woman’s sobs broke forth : 

“«Oh, my bairn ! My bairn !” she wailed. “That I s’uld see 
the day !” And, swaying to and fro, she moaned, while tears ran 
down her cheeks. 

“Don’t take on so! It’s only a faint,” cried the maid. “I 
never saw a woman so mad over any one in my life ! What think 
you Lady Barth will do, with her only child disappeared ? I de- 
clare, I ’m heart-sick for her !” 

“ Hush ! She ’s coming to,” whispered Ailsa. 

“Did you tell me that the child was lost ?” demanded Miss 



inn 






HBil 

Hi 


B wJjBBiSl 

Kill 

lips 






THE HEIR IS CAST AWAY. 


1 7 


Barth, as soon as voice returned to her. “Then go and help in 
the search. Don’t stay here to wait on me.” 

“Yes, go,” said Ailsa, noting the wildness in her young lady’s 
eyes. 

Myra Barth gathered all her strength and insisted on being 
dressed. 

Ailsa noticed that every few minutes some horrible thought 
seemed to overwhelm her ; she turned deadly pale and shook 
from head to foot. 

“ Go, go, Ailsa ! Go and bring me news !” she cried. 

Ailsa went and returned. 

“They’ve sent for the doctor for Mrs. Barth, and for Mr. 
Wrigley and for the family lawyer,” she reported. 


i8 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE INNOCENT AND THE GUILTY. 

At the very hour when Timmy Titlow began his nightly rounds 
at the Willesden Reservoir, a disreputable cousin of his, Tony 
Pettigrew, turned his steps to a villa which sat modestly among 
the splendors of the estates and palaces of Barth, Fitzroy and 
Bidebank. This villa was one of the cheap shams which every- 
where crowd the suburbs of the city — gates, hedges, winding- 
ways, porticoes — all patterned after more magnificent and endur- 
ing abodes. The villa was Clematis Villa, and was inhabited 
by Doctor James Wrigley, fourth cousin of the late Sir Giles 
Barth, and heir of the Barth belongings after Sir Giles’s progeny. 
That Sir Giles’s daughter Myra, vigorous and beautiful, had stood 
between him and the inheritance, James Wrigley had esteemed 
a cruelty of fortune. What right had estates to nearer heirs 
than fourth cousins? And when fourth cousins have six children 
and small revenues, the inheritance becomes a matter of necessity 
and intense desire. 

When Lady Barth bore a son, the cup of James Wrigley’s mis- 
fortunes seemed to him to be full. Myra’s existence he had 
been forced to endure. But the child he could not tolerate. 

Tony Pettigrew, summoned to Clematis Villa, crept in at the 
back gate and hid himself behind a clump of arbor vitce. 

To him appeared James Wrigley, cloaked. 

“Are you ready, and can you do it?” said James W. 

“ I don’t pretend to take to it,” said Pettigrew. “ It ’s a dread- 
ful risk, Mr. Wrigley. It ’s kidnaping ; and if the child dies 
within six months, they ’ll make it homicide ; and I tell you, 
sir, penal settlements haven’t attractions for Tony Pettigrew. 
Tony loves his native land, sir ! He ’s patriotic as a Fenian — ” 

“Humbug!” said Wrigley. “You’re trying to raise your 
price. It ’s the simplest thing in life. Just scramble up to the top 
of the front portico. The window of the center room is the one 
you want to enter. That is the nursery. The nurse sits by the 
babe’s cradle, and she sleeps like a log. The blinds will be shut, 
but the window is partly up. Draw the blind-bolt by this wire 


THE INNOCENT AND THE GUILTY. 


*9 


loop thrust through the Venetian slats. Lift the window. Step in, 
and with this atomizer turn a spray of chloroform on the nurse 
and the child. In a minute or two slip to the cradle, double the 
blanket over the babe and make off with him, closing window 
and blind, just as you found them. Bring the child to me, and 
I will change its clothes for a colored flannel slip, and then you 
have only to run to the city and lay it on a door-step, or in an 
entry about St. Giles. It will soon get to the almshouse, and all 
will be right.” 

“ Oh, it do look easy,” said Pettigrew, “but it ’pears wickeder 
nor to just lift a dead body out of the grave for you doctor 
men — ” 

“ Since when did you set up a conscience?” sneered Wrigley. 
“You make as much of this as if I asked you to murder the 
child !” 

“ But you see, sir, I can’t help thinking of the mother, she 
being a widow, and they do say these women set a dreadful store 
by babies.” 

“They say? And how much store did your mother set by 
you ?” 

“ Well, not so much, only to clip me over the ’e’d.” 

“ And this woman is fairly drowned in luxuries. She married 
for money and splendor, and she got it. She wouldn’t think 
you good enough to stand in the dust of her chariot-wheels, 
Tony !” 

“ Well,” said Tony, chuckling, “ I ’m not so used to being, 
set by to break my heart over that. But, can’t you find some 
other to take off the baby, sir ? I know I ’ll let it drop, and 
it ’ll break.” 

“’T isn’t made of glass; you dropped plenty of times, Tony, 
and none the worse for it. No, I can’t send any one else ; you 
are spry and sly, and used to night games, and you are the only 
fellow I can be sure of for the job — with a prison door open for 
you, Tony, whenever I take my hand from holding the door shut 
— why, you ’re not likely to fail in my work.” 

Tony winced. He had erred once — in respect to the Medical 
School cash-box, and to a certain little check of Mr. James 
Wrigley’s, which from two pounds turned to twenty in Tony 
Pettigrew’s hands. Ever since, he had reaped the fruit of evil- 
doing in having a master and a hard one. 


20 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


This night Tony set off on the work assigned him by James 
Wrigley. The road from Clematis Villa to Barth House crossed 
the path leading to the Willesden Reservoir. At this crossing 
Tony met a woman, cloaked, hooded, stalking along erect, never 
turning her head, and passing him like a dark spirit. 

He did not desire to be noticed, and shrank close to the 
wall. 

Tony Pettigrew followed out the programme cf James 
Wrigley to the letter, through the aspersion with chloroform 
and the advance upon the cradle. F urther than that he could not 
go, for the cradle, guarded by the sleeping nurse, was empty. 

Tony then descended from the porch, went to the east wing, 
climbed the balcony, and surveyed Lady Barth’s room until he 
felt assured that the child was not there. 

The next step must be to return to Doctor Wrigley and 
report defeat. 

“You see, sir, the child was not there,” said Tony ; “ and it ’s 
my belief some one has been beforehand with us in spiriting it 
away.” 

“ Fool ! One of the other nurses had it !” 

“No, sir; I believe not. The cradle was warm, and the child 
seemed to have been just picked out of it.” 

“ Did you meet any one going or coming?” 

Now Tony Pettigrew had met, returning, the same straight, 
unheeding walker whom he had passed on his going forth. 
Still, he replied : 

“No, sir; I never saw a living soul.” 

“ If you ’re lying to me, Tony, and to-morrow the child is 
there, why, I ’ll — ” 

“ You ’ll send me to-morrow night, and I ’ll go,” interposed 
Tony. 

“ It will not be well for you to trick me again,” said James 
Wrigley. “What I was about to say was : I’ll hand you over 
to justice in less than an hour.” 

“ Oh, I know !” whined Tony. “ You think no one would 
take stock in what I'd say about you / But there ’s no use of our 
quari^ling, sir. I maybe useful to you yet ; and I’ve no ob- 
jections to knowing where my dinners is coming from.” 

“ Well, to-morrow night, Tony, meet me here.” 

“ Make sure of me,” said Tony, mumbling to himself as he 


THE INNOCENT AND THE GUILTY. 


21 


went his way: “Well, the brat’s gone, and none o’ my 
doings. I ’m not to blame.” 

Not to blame? Oh, no! But for what did he goto Barth 
mansion that night ? 

Doctor Wrigley had his private mumble : 

“ Gone ! Can’t be possible ! But if it is, so much the better. 
I ’m innocent.” 

Oh, innocent? True ! But for what did he send Tony? 

There had this night been crime intended and harm done; 
and who were the guilty parties ? 

Doctor Wrigley, entering his house, found the wife of his 
bosom awake with a fretful child. 

“ Which patient has kept you to-night?” asked Mrs. Wrigley, 
casually. 

“ Porter’s baby is not likely to live,” replied her husband. But 
his own evasive remark had stirred up the venom in him. He 
continued his discourse : “ That is always the way. The child 

that ought to die doesn’t die. The Barth boy is tough as a young 
bear.” 

“Oh, now, James !” remonstrated Mrs. Wrigley. 

“ Oh, now, what, Mrs. Wrigley !” retorted her husband, his 
arms over his head and his eyes glaring through the opening in 
his night-shirt, wherewith he was in the agonies of induing him- 
self. “ I consider that Barth boy an imposition on the com- 
munity and an interloper upon the proper inheritance of my 
children.” 

Thus we see that the infant patrician was surrounded with foes 
from his first cry. His mother challenged one, in the paroxysms 
of her frenzy, when she heard that her child had disappeared. 

“Where is Myra Barth?” she cried to Ailsa. “Where is 
your young lady? She knows where my child is ! She is the 
one to be benefited l?y his loss ! My baby ! My little stolen, 
wronged, murdered baby ! She — she has made way with my 
child !” 

But Ailsa was like a lioness assailed. 

“ Hoo daur ye !” she cried. “ Hoo daur ye charge wi’ sic deeds 
yer husband’s daughter— me dear, dead lady’s only girl ! I ’m 
’wa’e that yer bairn ’s gone, but that ’s no reason ye s’uld fly at 
that lovely lassie. Wasna it enough that ye stole awa’ her 
faither frae her and married the auld man for his goods? And 


22 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


wasna it enough ye went and had a lad bairn to dispossess her 
as had been heir to all ? And noo ye maun try to rob her o’ char- 
acter an’ dirl false accusations against an orphan !” 

During this speech the doctor had entered, and Ailsa flew at 
him* 

“ Sir, the baby is gone — hoo nane can say. We are all wae, 
an’ the mither’s heart broke, but I winna suffer her to fling accu- 
sations at me young leddy, who hasna a defender in the wide 
warl. To think o’ chargin’ her wi’ making way wi’ the lad 
bairn !” 

The doctor, without reply, took Mrs. Barth in his arms and 
laid her on the bed. For some minutes he applied himself to 
g.iving such remedies as would quiet her nerves, for she seemed 
on the verge of brain fever. 

Presently he looked at Ailsa, who stood with heaving breast 
and flashing eyes. 

“You should not mind what a person in such a state says, nor 
should you reply as you are doing. Of course, every one who 
knows Miss Barth will know there is no blame attached to her. 
This poor lady is nearly wild.” 

“ Ah, but she ’ll push her wicked accusations! She will say 
my dear bairn is the one to benefit.” 

“ Nonsense ! We’ll find the child, of course,” said the doc- 
tor, taking Ailsa by the arm and quietly putting her outside the 
room. 

He put her face to face with James Wrigley. 

“What is all this I hear ? Lady Barth’s boy lost?” 

“Yes, Doctor Wrigley,” cried Ailsa, who believed it best to 
take a bull by the horns, “ and here ’s its puir mother gone de- 
mentit and accusin’ me bairn o’ bein’ party to the deed. Lawk, 
sirs ! she might as well accuse yoursel ’ as stands next heir. It 
aye pits ye ane step nearer til the fortune !” 

“People are often benefited with none of their own doings to 
thank for it,” said Doctor Wrigley. “ If the child is carried off 
it is for sake of reward, and the reward must be offered. Was 
there any mark on the child? Call the nurse.” 

“ I ken as weel as the nurse,” said Ailsa; “ there was but ane 
mark on the side of the right leg, ane inch abune the ankle, a 
little black mole like a bit apple seed, stannin’ oot !” 

“There’s the lawyer, Mr. Peter Mellodew. Call him here.” 


THE INNOCENT AND THE GUILTY. 


2 3 


Doctor James Wrigley briefly explained what Ailsa had told 
him. 

“ It strikes me,” said Wrigley, “that the search should be 
conducted promptly and quietly. The little one is probably not 
far off. A proper reward will bring it back.” 

“The worst o’ it is that the mither ’s gone daft, and accuses 
me young leddy,” interposed Ailsa. “And ye ken, Mr. Mel- 
lodew, that aspersions aye stick to the fairest character, and the 
whitest garments show slime soonest. It’s a weary weight if 
because Leddy Barth loses her chiel, my bairn must lose her 
guid name. What ’s a woman wi’out that, sirs ?” 

“ They might as well accuse /«<?,” said he lawyer, impatiently. 

Doctor Brice, Lady Barth’s medical attendant, former guardian 
and present trustee, now joined the other gentlemen, and the 
whole Barth interest was represented. 

“ I told you, Ailsa,” said the doctor, “ that these words of 
Lady Barth were the ravings of insanity ; unless she finds her 
child, she is likely to trouble no one long.” 

He motioned Ailsa to depart ; but the sturdy Scotswoman 
would have taken her time about it, had not her steps been hur- 
ried by hearing the shrieks of her idolized young mistress. 

Myra, in a maze of terror and horror, her brain whirling with 
visions of accusation, condemnation and even capital punish- 
ment, had opened her doors to hear every sound. As she sat 
intent on all that was passing, a huge black Newfoundland, a pet 
animal of her father, sprang into the room with a doleful cry, and 
seizing Myra’s dress in his teeth, began to drag her with all his 
strength toward the hall. Words of command and slaps on his 
head were useless. He whined and tugged. In despair, Myra 
caught up a pair of scissors and cut her dress loose. The dog, 
nothing daunted, was preparing for a firmer pull, when Myra’s 
cries brought Ailsa. When Ailsa had put the dog out of the 
way, Myra demanded : 

“What are they doing now, Ailsa?” 

“Weel, they mean to search quietly. They say the babe 
canna be far off — taken for a reward, mebbe ; and so be they get 
it back they woona be particular as to hoo it went. See, noo, 
my dearie, if ony one had the babe hidden, they could come after 
dark, lay it on the door-stane, ring the bell, and no questions 
asked. Hech, hinny, if I could get inkling o’ wha had it, I would 


24 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


just hint to them that I would be my lane in the shade o’ the 
western gate at midnight, wi’ a bag money in me han’, an’ gif 
they laid the babe in my arms they s’uld ha’e the siller, an’ no 
ane speering hoo they cam’ by it. Ye were aye keen-witted, las- 
sie, dear, an’ ye could suggest onyanewho might ha’e carried off 
the babe for a little gain. Ailsa would bring it back, an’ no harm 
dune.” 

During these artful suggestions Myra uttered never a word. 
She lay back, apparently deaf and dumb. 

“ The mither, puir soul, was flyting about you , lassie, as the 
ane to be helped by this,” said Ailsa, softly. 

Myra uttered a piercing shriek. 

“ Dinna tak’ taut ’o her folly !” cried Ailsa. “ Didne I an’ the 
doctor an’ Maister Wrigley an’ Lawyer Mellodew say she waur 
clean dementit ?” 

“Oh, Ailsa, Ailsa,” cried Myra, “I’d gladly lie down and 
die this minute to see that child in its mother’s arms as it was 
yesterday ! Oh, I did not know then what a blessed sight that 
was !” 

Ailsa put her apron over her head and began to weep. Myra 
endured the weeping as long as she could. Then she spoke up 
sharply : 

“ I wish you would go away, Ailsa. I want to think !” 

Ailsa withdrew. If she could not weep with her nursling, she 
could work for her. She put Myra’s dress, skirt and stockings 
in a bag, locked herself up in the laundry, and washed and ironed 
the tell-tale garments. 

Left alone once more, Myra sprang up and examined her 
shoe-bag. She found no marks of any midnight expedition. 
She flung herself on the bed and began to think — to recall the 
shadowy images in her mind. 

Last evening, coming to her room, she had glanced in at the 
open door of the nursery, and had seen the baby in his cradle, 
and the nurse beside him. The sight had stirred bitter feelings. 
She had been greatly distressed when she heard that this child’s 
advent was looked for. She had hoped the infant would prove a 
girl. She would not have sorrowed if he had died at his birth. 
But, instead of what she half or wholly hoped, here was a vigor- 
ous boy. 

Each hour of that child’s existence had seemed to crowd her 


THE INNOCENT AND THE GUILTY. 


25 


own with new troubles. She had never been reconciled to her 
father’s late-in-life marriage, and here was its, to her, bitter fruit. 
These feelings had predominated, as she looked at the cradle the 
night before. If that cradle were empty, what a brightening of her 
own horizon ! 

Oppressed with these feelings — feelings which went no further, 
and neither wished nor projected evil — she went to her room, 
and, after a long interval, slept. She had a dream. She dreamed 
that she perfectly hated her baby half-brother and resolved to 
kill him. 

In her dream, her whole nature seemed changed from wom- 
anly tenderness to fury and hate. She thought she dressed, went 
to the nursery, took up the child, walked through broad day to 
the Willesden Reservoir and flung the babe in. She dreamed 
that she then returned home, found that it was night and went to 
her bed. In sleep, her crime grew before her thoughts. She 
felt blood scorching on her soul. She heard the baby’s wails, 
she listened to the moans of its desolate mother. She thought 
that she returned to take the child from its watery grave ; but too 
late. The body had dissolved in the water ! 

Awaking, her first feeling had been terror. Next she felt in- 
tense relief from a sense of crime and a new toleration of the 
baby. 

Suddenly upon these feelings came the news of the disappear- 
ance of the child ! 

Lost? Without any trace ? 

Then had her dream been true ? 

Had she killed the baby ? 

If that was so, not only the agony of the deed rested on her — 
her keen pity for the anguish of the mother — but there must be 
the discovery ; the death would be traced home to her. 

Who would believe a sleep-walking story? Who would believe 
that she, who had so much to gain by this child’s death, had not 
deliberately destroyed it ? 

If she really had carried the infant to the Willesden Basin, 
then she must have been seen, or the body would be taken out 
and recognized soon. 

While these were the feelings of the one who had unconsciously 
made away with the Barth heir, far different were the emotions of 
James Wrigley, who had purposed a very similar deed. 


2 6 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“Someone has carried off or destroyed the Barth boy!” he 
cried to his wife. 

“ Oh — how— who ?” screamed Mrs. W., looking apprehensively 
at her husband. 

“ Why, how can I tell ? But, since he ’s gone, I for one don’t 
wish him back.” 

“Oh, James!” returned his wife* “Think of his mother !” 

“ Well, woman, think of our children !” 

“There’s Myra.” 

“She ’ll die young like her mother. It ’s a burning shame for 
girls to inherit.” 

“ There’s a man asking for you, sir,” said a servant 

The man was Tony Pettigrew. 

He drew his chief aside. 

“Sir, wasn ’t I right? But my cousin, Timmy Titlow, vows 
and swears that he saw a woman throw a baby into Willesden 
Basin last night, at one o’clock.” 

“I’ll have the Basin searched,” cried Wrigley. 

“ They have searched, and they all say Timmy dreamt.” 

“ They shall search more thoroughly. I’ll go there myself. 
Bring me a diver, Tony. I ’ll lay out five pounds on that search 
before sundown.” 


A WOMAN’S memories. 


27 


CHAPTER III. 

A WOMAN’S MEMORIES. 

As a murderer haunts the scene of his crime, James Wrigley 
haunted Barth House. From the search of the Reservoir he re- 
paired to the mansion ; and, as a married cousin and a physician, 
he had access to Myra’s room. 

“ I ’ve had the Willesden Basin searched,” said James, “but 
there was no trace of the child in it. When is Jasper Fitzroy 
coming back?” 

“ I look for him every hour,” faltered Myra. 

“ And then you will be married, eh?” 

“No — yes — no — Oh, I cannot tell.” 

“ Well, since this youngster ’s carried off, you ’ll have a 
smashing fortune for some husband, Myra.” 

“ I don’t want the fortune 1” cried Myra, lifting from her pil- 
low. “Not at such a price. I want the little child.” 

She hid her face with her arms, and James W. went out, and 
left her sobbing bitterly. 

When Myra, a little recovered herself, removed her arm from 
her eyes and looked about the room, she saw Ailsa gazing at her 
with an expression of fear, pity and dumb fidelity. 

“ Ha’e ye ony word to tell me, lambie?” said Ailsa. 

“No. What should I? Only, to-morrow morning I want 
the papers — all the papers. Perhaps they can give some hint 
about — the child.” 

When Ailsa had finally said good-night, Myra rose, locked her 
door, threw open her window, and knelt down by it in the full 
moonlight. 

The skies looked so calm and holy compared to the tortures in 
her soul. 

And why these tortures ? What had she done to deserve them ? 

She recalled her life. All the past swept in a slow procession 
before her. 

The Barth title and the Barth fortune had come from Myra’s 
grandfather — one of England’s factory princes. 

Myra’s father had married in middle life, and when Myra was 


28 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


but a year old, her mother and grandfather had been buried 
within a week. 

By her grandfather’s will, if no other children were born to her 
father, she was to have the whole estate. If other daughters 
were born, they were to have each fifteen thousand pounds, 
and Myra the estate. But if Giles Barth had a son, the property 
was to be his with the title, and Myra was to have fifteen thou- 
sand pounds. 

Myra remembered no play-fellows until she was six years old, 
when Doctor Brice, a bachelor, brought his orphan ward, Eliza- 
beth, only one year Myra’s senior, to visit her. 

From that date the two girl-children became bosom friends. 
Elizabeth was loving, submissive, pettish when vexed, easily led. 
Myra was strong and firm of spirit, daring and independent, hot 
in her loves and dislikes and in all her impulses. 

All the fondness of Myra was lavished on her meek com- 
panion. They became inseparable ; and finally, when Sir Giles 
decreed that Myra should pass from under Ailsa’s sole sway to 
the care of a governess, he proposed that Elizabeth should have 
the same instructions. 

But at thirteen affairs changed. The governess found a lover, 
and began to neglect her charge. Sir Giles promulgated an order 
for Myra to depart to a boarding-school on the Continent. 
Doctor Brice, distracted by the charge of a well-grown damsel, 
sent Elizabeth to share the literary exile of her friend. 

Myra, kneeling in the moonlight, tracing up the path of mem- 
ory, recalled how the night had been just so brilliant when her 
father accompanied Elizabeth and herself to France, how they 
two had wept together, and he had consoled them both with 
fruit and bonbons, and by watches bought in Paris, and at part- 
ing had kissed them both good-bye. She and Elizabeth had 
been as devoted sisters in those days. 

Four years had passed, and Myra and Elizabeth returned from 
exile. 

Barth House brightened up at the face of its young mistress. 
Ailsa had accompanied her charge abroad, and returning home 
when she did, filled the servants’ ears with tales of her Myra’s 
goodness. 

To find a chaperon, a distant cousin, and introduce Myra to 
society was the next move. , 


A woman's MEMORIES. 


29 


The girl had but two distant cousins. One became her chap- 
eron; the other was Dr. J. Wrigley. And who was Wrigley? 

Myra, in her musing, stumbled on his name, and followed up 
her memories of him. Her father’s distant cousin, he had been 
named in her grandfather’s will, James Wrigley and his lawful 
heirs, next heirs after Myra and any other issue of Sir Giles 
Barth. 

Myra remembered the lean-faced, ferret-eyed, nervous young 
student of chemistry who had haunted Barth House when she 
was a child, and who perplexed her with grimaces and teasing 
ways and a lack of the fondness and admiration which every 
one else showed for the Barth heiress. 

James Wrigley entered his profession, being poor, and suc- 
ceeded but moderately, being unpopular in his manners. He 
celebrated Myra’s departure for school by marrying, and Mrs. 
J. Wrigley had since added six souls to the population of London. 

James Wrigley had never greatly liked Myra. Why should 
he ? She stood between him and the Barth fortune. 

There came a day when Myra and the Wrigleys drew nearer 
together, having a common cause of grievance. 

Returning home beautiful, accomplished, rich, high-spirited, 
Myra was surrounded by friends and lovers. 

Sir Giles invited Elizabeth to reside with her friend, and Eliza- 
beth’s quieter beauty served but as a foil for Myra. 

And then Myra fell in love, or Jasper Fitzroy fell in love with 
her, or their loves, like the sudden passion of a young Romeo 
and Juliet, were a mutual growth. 

At all events, friendship paled its ineffectual fires before love. 
Elizabeth was no longer the larger half of Myra’s soul. Myra 
loved her still, but her dearer love and deeper confidences had 
now gone over to Jasper Fitzroy. 

There were many hours when Elizabeth found herself the one 
too many in a party, and so fell back on her own resources. 

What days those were ! 

And love’s young dream still bewitched Myra and Jasper, 
when they were aroused as by a thunder-clap by sudden changes 
in their respective families. 

The loves of his daughter and her suitor may have renewed the 
youth of Sir Giles. 

It grew upon him like the brightening of the day, that his 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


30 

daughter’s former playmate and school-companion had become 
a very lovely young woman. 

Elizabeth was mild, tender, obedient. 

Sir Giles bade Elizabeth become his wife, and Elizabeth accord- 
ingly married him. 

Whether this suit had come to her imperatively and unexpect- 
edly, whether without her intention it had presented itself in her 
life and had been accepted like the rest, or whether with the 
shrewdness and persistency of quiet natures she had long laid 
her plans to this very end, there was no one could tell. 

Doctor Brice inclined to the first view. 

Myra and James Wrigley were sure of the last. 

One element entered into the affair for which no one made 
account. Elizabeth really loved her elderly, even old, husband. 

She was alone in the world, and, but for Myra, lonely. And 
Myra had found a dearer love. 

It was a new and glad experience to Elizabeth to be first in some 
one’s affections. She rejoiced in being petted and preferred by 
some one, and gratitude grew into love. 

Still, that Sir Giles at sixty should choose so young a girl, a girl 
without dower or high birth, was an event so amazing, that even 
Doctor Brice, while realizing how greatly his ward’s fortunes 
would be advanced by it, remonstrated against the marriage. 

Myra was more passionate in her remonstrances. Not that 
the girl realized the monetary issues of the question, but she 
regarded the ill-assorted union as disgraceful. She said that her 
father had been cajoled and deceived, and that her former friend 
was money-hunting and unwomanly, making a sale of herself. 

All the early tenderness was at an end ; the once friends were 
foes. Elizabeth and Myra were on barely speaking terms with 
each other. 

And for Myra Barth to be incensed against one was for her to 
feel hotly and persistently. 

Despite the fury of Myra, the sober hesitation of Doctor Brice 
and the spiteful remarks and vexation of James Wrigley, who 
feared his heirship would be more remote than ever, Sir Giles 
Barth and Elizabeth were married. 

And the west-wing of Barth House became the headquarters 
of Myra and Ailsa and their faction ; and the east-wing of the 
same mansion was the stronghold of Sir Giles and Lady Barth. 


A woman’s memories. 


31 

But there was no open war ; nothing loud, vulgar and patent 
to condemnation. 

And Elizabeth had an element of sorrow in her new state. 
She had really loved Myra, and she mourned over her estrange- 
ment. Doctor Brice and other friends said that soon Myra would 
marry Jasper Fitzroy, and remove to be mistress of Fitzroy Place, 
a noble old mansion, worth a fabulous sum, long bereaved by 
death of its mistress. 

Myra expected herself soon to make this change. But while 
solacing herself, as girls of nineteen can so readily do, with hope, 
a new trouble invaded the life hitherto so sunnily fortunate. 

The father of James Fitzroy died after a short illness. Father 
and son had been tenderly attached to each other. On his 
deathbed the elder Fitzroy confided to his son that, carried away 
by an unsuspected madness for speculation, he had speculated so 
disastrously that his entire fortune was deeply involved and the 
estate and ancestral mansion heavily mortgaged. 

More weightily than a burden of sin on the dying man’s soul 
lay the thought that his ancient home should pass into the hands 
of some Croesus of trade. He implored his son to redeem the 
estate. He seemed, at the hour of his death, to have regained 
that clear business insight which for years had been dimmed by 
the speculative mania. He explained to Jasper how the place 
could be leased for a short term, and how he, by accepting a 
position in India, could within a few years, relieve all 
liabilities. 

What could Jasper Fitzroy do other than calm the mind of his 
dying parent by a promise to devote himself to the reconstruction 
of the family fortunes ; to rescue the old estate, so that it should 
descend unimpaired to his heirs. 

True, this solemn promise involved the delay of his marriage 
and a long separation from Myra. 

But at the best, his fortune would offer but a bad record to 
lay before Sir Giles. Jasper could not go to him and ask in one 
breath for Myra’s hand and money sufficient to rehabilitate the 
Fitzroy interests. 

He and Myra were young. > 

Youth is hopeful. 

Jasper, when he had buried his father, carried out to the letter 
his directions; and within six months from Sir Giles Barth’s 


32 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


marriage Jasper Fitzroy had departed for India, promising to be 
beck in three or four years. 

But how long are three or four years to those who wait! 

Sir Giles, a kind, liberal father, could not understand that his 
daughter could be less than happy. She was young to marry ; 
Jasper was young — too young for a man to assume the cares of 
the head of a house. Sir Giles did not know why Myra and 
Elizabeth should not get on together as genially as heretofore. 
And, as her father was thus unconscious, and Elizabeth was 
offended and shy, Myra, as she well recalled in her night review 
of her life, had entered upon lonely days. 

Society petted her, but there was none to sympathize. She 
had acquaintances, admirers; no confidant. The world about 
her was bright and glittering, but to her sadness empty as a 
bubble. 

It had been only a year that affairs went on thus — one year oi 
secret tears, of hope deferred, and growing sick at its past — a 
year which she had felt very bitter while she was living it, but 
which seemed a paradise as she now looked back on it from her 
lonely height of sorrow. 

Oh, what beautiful days were those when she had yet something 
to hope for and was not hateful to herself ! 

All this ended in a year. 

One morning it was found that Sir Giles had not been in his 
bed during the night. They searched for him and found him 
sitting dead in his library, the lamp burning low, nearly out of 
oil, on his table, a book open before him. 

This was grief to Myra ; a greater grief to Elizabeth. 

What was it upheld the widow in this hour ? 

“So,” said James Wrigley, “Myra is sole heir after all. She 
will only be encumbered by the moderate allowance due the 
widow.” 

Myra felt herself sole heiress. In the midst of her mourning 
this belief consoled her, for it opened to her the possibility of 
happiness. Affluence also inclined her to be generous ; she 
comforted Elizabeth, or tried to do so, and told her that Barth 
Mansion should always be her home and that she should be 
straitened in nothing. Elizabeth was silent. 

This was during the week between Sir Giles’s death and his 
burial, when, during the cold November days, the body lay in 


A woman’s memories. 


33 


state in the great guest-chamber, the knight’s burial and the 
year’s burial preparing together. 

After the first few days of her grief, Myra found herself turning 
eagerly to the only person left in the world for whom she could 
care. 

Who was there to comfort her or protect her or to look after 
her interests but Jasper. 

Six months more and she would be twenty-one; but could she 
then administer her large fortune ? She wrote to Jasper. She 
told him of the sudden, terrible death, of the loss and loneliness, 
of the helplessness which she felt. 

“Don’t stay away any longer, Jasper i” she wrote. “I am alone in the 
world but for you, and my heart will break in this dreariness. All my 
father’s property comes to me. I have more than I know how to use. Come 
back and help me take care of all I have. I will pay off the mortgages on 
Fitzroy Towers, and after the present lease has expired you can renovate 
the property and live in your own home again. My father always loved 
you and was glad to think of you as my protector. All this will be as he 
wishes it, I know, and we will be very kind to Elizabeth.” 

She posted this letter the day before the burial. 

After the burial Mr. Mellodew had only to read before the 
assembled family and relatives the will of her grandfather, by 
which Myra inherited. 

“As” — said Mr. Mellodew, laying down the document which 
twenty years before he had read in this very room, Myra then 
being a babe in arms — “ as Sir Giles has left no other heir, Miss 
Myra Barth succeeds to her grandfather’s entire estate. In a few 
months she will be of age and mistress of herself and her posses- 
sions, and we all feel sure that Sir Giles’s fortune could not be in 
better hands.” 

Mr. Mellodew bowed all around. 

Myra flushed, and tears stole over her cheeks. 

The widow looked down without a word. 

The next day Myra posted another letter to Jasper. 

“ The will has been read. All this belongs to me. I am lonelier than 
ever. Do come home, Jasper! I will clear off all encumbrances on your 
estate. Your promise to your father will be kept. What matter who does 
it? All will be ours jointly now. Don’t leave me alone any longer. I am so 
unhappy.” 

The second day after, Doctor Brice summoned a family conclave 
—Myra, Mr. Wrigley, Mrs. Wrigley. Doctc/r Brice desired to 
inform them of an important fact which should have been made 


34 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


known before, but which had just come to his knowledge, i. e ., 
that Lady Barth was expecting an heir. The will must be held 
in abeyance until the anticipated infant arrived, for, if a son, then 
all that was supposed to be Myra’s would belong to him. 

Except for knowing the sorrow to herself involved, one might 
have been inclined to smile at a letter hastily dispatched next day 
to Jasper. 

“ Do not come— not until I write further. Perhaps all our fine schemes 
will perish. Something dreadful has happened. I do not know as I shall 
have any fortune at all. Maybe I cannot clear off the mortgages. Keep 
your position, dear Jasper, and let us wait— until, oh, until what and 
when 1 I feel nearly distracted.” 

And then Myra passed months in wishing with all her heart 
that Elizabeth’s expected baby might prove a daughter. 

Possibly once in a while she gave way to the dim wish that it 
would not live at all. 

But the hope of the child — of a creature to love and to claim 
and to love her, upheld Elizabeth. 

The letters written just before the funeral and just after the 
reading of the will caught a fast ship and went speedily to India. 
The messenger of warning and of omen tarried a while in port, 
and the ship which carried it was obliged to put into a Spanish 
harbor for repairs. 

Ill news does not always travel fast. 

Myra got letters from Jasper written before tidings of her 
father’^ death reached him. 

Then, at last, while hourly she looked to hear what he would 
do — whether come on or remain there — Elizabeth became the 
mother of a son. 

There was wonderful joy in the widow’s soul. To Myra the 
word of this birth was doom. 

Now she heired but fifteen thousand pounds, and for years 
Jasper Fitzroy must labor to disencumber his own estate. 

She could not love this fatal baby. She could not sympathize 
with Elizabeth’s delight, nor would she permit herself to hate the 
child. She told herself that while unfortunate she need not be 
wicked. She dared not begrudge the babe life. Still the very 
sight of him was bitterness and sign of her own loss and hers 
and Jasper’s disappointment. What if Jasper, having never 
received her line of warning, had hurried off to her, and should 
come in, elate with hope, his position sacrificed, and find her all 


A WOMAN’S MEMORIES. 


35 


unable to fulfill her pledges — poor as himself? Could she love 
the baby with this fear hanging over her ? 

Whatever of sisterly devotion was lacking to the heir of Barth 
was more than made up in the passionate devotion of his mother. 
Tenfold the love she had lavished on Myra and experienced for 
Sir Giles was showered upon her boy. Once more she had 
something to live for, to claim, to be devoted to. 

Day after day passed over the baby’s head, and Elizabeth was 
sitting up and gaining strength, while to Myra the hours were 
dragging slowly, for it was long since she had heard from her 
lover, and she did not know whether to believe him sick, dead 
or forgetful in India, or approaching in equal pace England and 
disappointment. Here, in her retrospect of her life, as she knelt 
in the summer moonlight, Myra approached a terrible and a 
recent period — the very day when last Elizabeth had possessed 
her idolized boy. That day Myra had received a letter from 
Jasper’s partner in India, an old acquaintance of both the Barths 
and the Fitzroys. The letter ran thus : 

“ Dear Miss Barth : Our friend Jasper, receiving your two previous let- 
ters by the same mail, at once made his preparations for departing, and 
sailed the third day after in the Ocean Queen. Unless some delay has 
occurred, he will be with you when you read this. He requested me to 
open and answer his correspondence, and so your letter bidding him not 
come at once fell into my hands. I sincerely trust all didiculties will be 
fairly settled ere this, so that you will be glad that he hastened to you. 
If any disaster has happened the disappointment will be terrible, as he left 
here in eager spirits, leaving his business just as it was proving exceed- 
ingly successful. “Truly, etc.” 

This letter threw Myra into a state of wild distress. She did 
not for one instant wonder why Jasper was not with her to meet 
a letter leaving a fortnight later than himself. Her one torment 
was the thought of the doleful loss of hope brought to her Jasper 
by the little red-faced sleeper in the nursery. All day Myra 
walked the house ard the grounds in restless distress, expecting 
each instant to see her lover, and to tell him that she had deluded 
him and his return was vain. In spite of herself, visions of 
disaster to the unlucky baby, of fits, of falls, of sudden disease, of 
the hundred and one ways in which even greatly desired and 
beloved infants depart out of this world, filled her frantic mind. 

Then she saw the child as she went to her room. She fell 
asleep, almost hating the little creature. She had that restless, 
dreamful night. 


36 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


She awoke. The child had disappeared. 

Then the question : Had she a share in that disappearance ? 

This, and mournful enough, was a woman’s memory of her life, 
moving on from light to dark, as the moon which had journeyed 
down the sky into a region of clouds and summer rain. 

Suddenly a great black dog, a belonging of the Barths, came 
under the window, saw Myra kneeling, sniffed and set up a wild, 
prolonged howl. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE FATE OF THE BABY. 

On the night when Mr. Titlow saw his ghost, the infant Sir 
Rupert Barth passed through many adventures. 

Having been hugged, kissed and blessed by his widowed 
mother, his nurse undressed him and put him in his cradle. 

From that warm nest he was lifted by his sleeping half-sister, 
and under shelter of her cloak he made the first journey of his 
life and his first acquaintance with outer air. 

Sleeping as tranquilly on this girl’s breast as in his bed, the 
baby-knight was lifted into the moonlight and then dashed into 
the waters of Willesden Basin. 

Under water went little Sir Rupert. 

Down the hill went Timmy Titlow. 

Back to Barth House, with solemn march, went Myra. Into the 
Willesden Basin plunged a creature that had followed, like a black 
shadow, all Myra’s movements — her father’s favorite dog ! 

Up came the dog, babe in mouth, and with that strange 
instinct that seems often to overlap with reason, the animal not 
only struck for the nearest margin, but for the sloping portion 
where the Basin boat lay moored. 

Here he gained ground. Coming to land at this spot, the dog 
faced a different point of the compass from either Mr. Titlow or 
the sleep-walker. 

The drenched babe was heavy, and our dog, led still by a 
wonderful instinct, took the way lying straight before him as the 
shortest way. It led him to the workmen’s little dwellings. 


THE FATE OF THE BABY. 


37 


The dog knew, as well as a man, that the rescued and soaking 
infant needed instant human care. 

It was written in the strange destinies of this little child that a 
home and a mother’s arms should be open to him, cast out of his 
legitimate place. 

The first house which the dog reached belonged to Sam Porter. 
Late as it was, Sam stood in his doorway. 

The man was weeping. 

Not five minutes had passed since he had seen his first-born draw 
his last breath. 

Leaving his mother-in-law with the dead child on her knee, 
seated before the kitchen fire, Sam Porter stood in his doorway to 
drop those tears of which he was foolishly ashamed. 

The worst of Porter’s trouble was not the loss of his child, 
though that hurt him sorely, but that the death of the child 
seemed likely to involve that of its mother; and Sam was a 
devoted husband to his sickly wife. 

As the young workman stood weeping at the entrance of his 
unhappy abode, a great wet dog came up to him and laid at his 
very feet a little, drenched baby. 

The baby gasped. Sam lifted it up. 

The dog seemed to regard this action in the light of the old 
Roman ceremony of parental acknowledgment, and at once 
dashed away. 

Not to be less reasonable than a brute, Sam Porter carried the 
jetsam into the kitchen and laid it on his mother-in-law’s 
knee, in the room of the little corpse just placed back in the 
cradle. 

<k Do something with the bit thing — a dog just laid it at my 
feet in the door,” explained Sam. 

“ Save us all !” cried the woman, with womanly wit tearing off 
the clothes, drawing near the fire, and rubbing the baby briskly. 

“ Sam, warm up that mint tea, and put a drop of gin in it, and 
let me feed it. Save us all ! It is a lad, and hearty, too. It will 
be a week older than our poor wean. Look at that, now, Sam ! 
So the world wags, Here’s some woman ashamed to own her 
child, and she’s pitched it into the Basin, and it comes out alive 
— and our poor laddie, with its mother’s life hanging on him— 
why — he dies !” 

The child stripped, dried, fed, reanimated, there was nothing 


38 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


to do but put on it the clothes just removed from Porter’s dead 
child. 

Triumphant over his disadvantages, Sir Rupert, clad in a 
coarse, yellow flannel nightgown, kicked his fat legs, tranquilly 
sucked his thumb, and in the poor little kitchen, tended by these 
laboring folk, lay, apparently meditating on the excellence of 
catnip tea with gin in it. 

A faint knocking was heard on the wall. 

Porter went to the next room. 

A weak voice spoke to him out of the darkness. 

“ Sam, I want the baby. It looked sick to-day, and I ’m so 
worried about it I can’t sleep. I want it in my arms. Sam, what 
did Doctor Wrigley say — is there anything wrong with my 
baby ?” 

“ Tuts, my girl,” said Sam, his face shrouded in the darkness, 
and keeping a firm voice, “ the baby ’s all right.” 

“ Bring it to me, or I ’ll never sleep.” 

Sam closed the door and retreated to his mother-in-law. The 
two eyed each other. 

“Oh, what’s to do?” cried poor Sam. “I can't go and tell 
Jane her baby’s dead ! She’d just drop off herself before morn- 
ing !” 

“See here, Sam,” said the grandmother. “Providence has 
just showed us what to do. You and I must just bear the burden 
alone and never tell Jane a word of it. The Lord took our 
boy, but, see, he just sent us another in the mouth of a dog — 
as the birds brought food to David, or some other good man, long 
ago. So, Sam, just take this little live fellow and lay him in her 
,arms, and — Heaven help us— she ’ll never know the difference. 
Her room ’s been none so light sin’ she was sick.” 

Sam Porter allowed himself to be counseled by his mother-in- 
law. Who had a better right? He carried the foundling and 
laid it in his wife’s bosom, saying huskily : 

“There’s the baby, my girl.” 

Jane Porter had just as motherly a soul as Lady Barth. She 
clasped the little one fondly ; and poor Sir Rupert nestled off to 
sleep, quite oblivious of the change of mothers or the change of 
fortunes. 

Coming back to the kitchen, Sam stood by the stove, while his 
mother-in-law, with many a sigh, set the kitchen to rights. 


THE FATE OF THE BABY. 


. M 

“ I mind,” said Sam, moodily, “ there’s a story in the Good 
Book about two babies being changed over night, and no luck 
came of it.” 

“ Well, son, this change can’t be helped, ’less we are content to 
let poor Jane die of grief; for it’s only the baby that keeps her 
alive. Doctor Wrigley said so his own self. Surely the Lord will 
never frown on our taking in a foundling, and all that remains 
for us is never to let living soul hear of the change, for if we do 
the story will creep to Jane and to the child, and all will be 
* ruined.” 

The old wife then took the dead child from the cradle and, 
while many tears dropped on it, she straightened the meager 
limbs, and then she pinned the little body up in a white towel. 

“ We must get it buried quietly, Sam, or all will be known,” 
she said. 

“I can’t bury my own flesh and blood like a dog,” replied 
poor Sam. 

“No more you can’t,” assented the woman, laying the forlorn 
little bundle upon a larger towel and strewing it thickly with gum 
camphor, before she smoothly pinned on the next wrapping, and 
then enveloped the whole in newspaper. “ I ’ll e’en lay the poor, 
dear creature away on a shelf till the morn night, and maybe 
we ’ll see a clear way to do our duty by it. 

“The neighbors have not been coming in much; I’m no 
gossip,” said Sam’s mother-in-law, Dame Chitton, “ and so we 
keep the thing quiet and make no stir, I make sure no one will 
get a hint o’ it. And when the doctor comes again I ’ll keep the 
child in the dark.” 

“ Unless he comes to see it,” observed Sam, shrewdly. “For 
I ’m mistaken if a young child can get used as this one has and 
not have a spell of sickness.” 

The next morning, Sam Porter was off early to his day’s work, 
and heard nothing of Timmy Titlow’s dream. If he had heard 
never so much he could not have spoken, for he felt convinced 
that the least disturbance about her child would cost his wife her 
life. Porter was assured, without hearing of Mr. Titlow’s adven- 
tures, that a child had been into and out of the Willesden Basin. 
But when Sam returned home from his day’s work he found his 
mother-in-law in the kitchen with the child on her lap and her 
face full of anxiety. She spoke in whispers ; 


4o 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


‘ Jane’s been improving all day. She’s been feeling this 
child’s hands and face and legs and pluming herself on how he ’s 
improving. And what a fine child it is, the Lord help her ! 
And now, Sam, the child ’s sick ; it won’t eat since morn, and 
just hear how it wheezes. It ’s lung fever, I fear.” 

“I said so !” exclaimed Sam. “What else could it have? 
Well, there’s only to call Doctor Wrigley !” 

When, therefore, Doctor Wrigley neared Clematis Villa, after 
his call on Myra, he was met by Porter. 

“ Would you come to see the baby, sir ?” 

Doctor Wrigley left the dispensary physician to treat the ail- 
ments of Porter’s class of people, but Sam had, previous to his 
marriage, been the doctor’s servant, and he had begged the 
doctor to use his skill for his wife and child. 

The doctor never liked to make enemies of what he called 
useful fellows, and he had granted Sam’s petition. Accordingly, 
Doctor Wrigley accompanied Sam to his house, and was led to 
the judiciously darkened kitchen, and seating himself before 
Dame Chitton, lard a professional grasp on the child’s hand and 
wrist. 

“Why, dame, this child’s not ill! It’s twenty per cent, 
stouter than it was day before yesterday !” 

The babe moaned. 

“ Listen till it breathes,” said Dame Chitton. 

Doctor Wrigley bent his head. 

“ The lungs are obstructed ; it has taken cold. Open the win- 
dows, dame, I must have more light. Throw back the shutters, 
this place is stifling !” 

He took the child on his own knees and, Dame Chitton, with 
fear and trembling, opened the shutter. As soon as the light 
fell on the infant, the acute eye of the doctof divined that this 
was not Jane Porter’s baby. 

“ Dame, will you step into the other room ?” he said, sharply. 

The woman went out alarmed. 

Doctor Wrigley promptly loosened the child’s garments. 

He had never seen Lady Barth’s child, but he had often seen 
the Porter baby. 

And Ailsa had described little Sir Rupert’s birth mark. 

Instead of the scrawny fortnight-old wean of Jane Porter, here 
was a vigorous youngster, a full three weeks old, and above its 


THE FATE OF THE BABY. 


41 


ankle the mark that Ailsa had so carefully described — a black, 
elevated mole like an apple seed. 

Here was the Barth heir ! 

Doctor Wrigley could not bring himself to prescribe for it, as, 
for instance, he would have prescribed for a little Wrigley, in such 
a crisis. 

He recalled Dame Chitton. 

“ Here ! There ’s nothing much the matter with this child. 
Dose it yourself, old-woman way. Sam, step out with me.” 

Thus remitted to her own skill, the dame, feeling convinced 
that the child was really ill, called in a wise woman of the neigh- 
borhood to aid her, and the two made such use of poultices, sim- 
ples and draughts as, united to Sir Rupert’s happy constitution, 
within a few days restored him to full health. 

Doctor Wrigley, having “ stepped out ” with Sam to a spot 
convenient for conference, thus opened fire on him : 

“ Porter, that ’s not your child ! Where is your child ?” 

“ Doctor,” replied Porter, “I must make a clean breast of it to 
you, for I ’ve been in a terrible way all day with my feelings. My 
poor child died last night, about one.” 

“Just as I thought it would,” said the doctor. “ Now, Sam, 
where did you get this child ?” 

Sam told the story as already known to the reader. 

“ And where is your child’s body?” 

“ Doctor, it is on the closet shelf, and I’m in a sad strait to 
give it proper burial. I can ’t miss that, doctor. I suppose I ’ve 
done dreadful wrong, but what else could I do, with Jane in such 
a way ?” 

“You have done quite right,” spoke up Doctor Wrigley, 
briskly. “ I should have done the same. You acted from the 
heart, Porter ; that ’s the best way to act. I shall keep your secret 
religiously, and all will be well, if only you and the dame don’t 
prate or hint. If you do, you’ll get into trouble. Your wife’s 
life hangs on this concealment.” 

“ I know it do. We’re bound to keep it up, sir, but there ’s 
the dead baby.” 

“I must help you there, Sam. You were always a faithful 
servant to me. There, take that five pounds. I ’ll give you a 
certificate of death for the child. You go into the city— take a 
cab, drive to the East End and buy a little coffin. Come here, 


42 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


put the child in, go to the nearest livery and hire a hackney- 
coach to take you to Tower Hamlets Cemetery. The sexton's 
assistant there is a good fellow, named Tony Pettigrew; and 
I will give you a note to him, and you can have the child prop- 
erly buried by to-morrow morning, and your wife will never know 
more about it. 

“ Oh, doctor," cried Sam Porter, “ you are the best friend 
that ever a poor fellow had ! I ’ll obey your orders this minute !’’ 

Having thus found the Barth heir, Doctor Wrigley sought 
Clematis Villa. 

The little knight had fallen into Sam Porter’s hands without 
Doctor Wrigley’s intervention, and was not to be removed thence 
by his interference. 

“ What has become of that child ?’’ said Mrs. Wrigley. 

“ Gipsies, probably,’’ said her husband. 

“Well, / wish it were safe back again.’’ 

“ You are doing injustice to your family to wish anything of 
the kind !” 

“But what good will the baby’s loss do to us when there is 
Myra?" 

“Foolish woman! Don’t you see, in the first place, I would 
get the title. Then, having the title, Myra is naturally bound to 
help me support it ; and again, I secure the Barth estate interest 
and shall get into Parliament. I can stop this detestable prac- 
tice, which I loathe. If Myra dies without children, I get the 
entire property; and see there what I can do for my family." 

“Yes," said Mrs. Wrigley, indulging in maternal dreams — 
“ Yes, our eldest would be heir of the estates and the title. The 
baby could — but there’s Myra!" 

“ 1 There ’s Myra !’ Have you only one tune to sing? Why, 
if aught befalls Jasper Fitzroy, Myra will never marry. Then I 
shall get her to make me her business man to administer her 
affairs. We can manage a young woman alone in the world.” 

“ It does look very much to our advantage, but I hate to 
rise by so much misery to others. They say Lady Barth has 
been in fits all day, and that Myra takes it much to heart." 

“ I cannot believe that Myra is such a consummate fool !" 
retorted Wrigley, 


A LOST LOVER. 


43 


CHAPTER V. 

A LOST LOVER. 

Doctor Wrigley daily expected to hear of the death of the child 
at Sam Porter’s. 

How any reasonable infant could survive such disasters the 
doctor could not imagine. 

The little lost knight, however, showed a wonderful aptitude 
for fighting his own battles, and at the end of two weeks was 
heartier than ever. 

At this time Sam Porter called on Doctor Wrigley, being per- 
plexed with a case of conscience, and choosing a poor enough 
father-confessor. 

“ Doctor, the child yon is doing fine, and Jane is just bound 
up in him. She never misdoubts at all about it. But I ’ve 
heard that a baby was stolen out of some great house nigh 
here, and I ’m thinking suppose it be this one. Why, it ’s a sin 
not to go make it known.” 

“ Nonsense !” said the doctor. “ If you go to talking, at once 
Jane will find out the deception, and I won’t answer for her life a 
minute. She has disease of the heart. And the talk, too, will 
be useless ; for, of course, it will prove that this is not the child 
taken from the great house. This is some lost woman’s child, 
and it’s a mercy it fell into good hands.” 

“And you’re sure I’d better not speak?” 

“I am certain. The child of the ‘ great house ’ was stolen by 
gipsies for a reward, not to be flung into Willesden Basin.” 

The fear that Sam Porter should speak distracted the doctor. 
The child could be known any day by its mark. 

This mark the doctor determined to remove. He went to 
Porter’s house one evening, when Sam and his wife were out for 
a walk. He told Dame Chitton that he had concluded it best to 
remove the little mole, 'lest hereafter it might become harmful if 
irritated. 

The infallibility of doctors was one part of Dame Chitton’s 
creed. She bared the baby’s leg, and Doctor Wrigley hastily ex- 
scinded the mole. 


44 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


In his haste he wrinkled the skin of the plump leg, and so the 
fragment he cut out left a scar exactly heart-shaped. 

As this bled rather freely, Dame Chitton resorted to a favorite 
old-woman remedy and stanched it with soot from the kitchen 
chimney. Little Sir Rupert’s mark was now changed. As his 
leg increase in size, the new mark became more apparent — a 
jet-black heart. His new father, in a frantic attempt at wit, 
called the nurseling “ The Ace of Hearts /” 

During these two weeks Lady Barth had passed the crisis of 
her brain fever and was gaining a little in health. 

“ She is a wreck, a mere wreck,” said Doctor Brice to Myra. 
“I doubt if even the restoration of her child could now greatly 
prolong her life. She will gain for a little while, possibly walk 
around the grounds, and slowly pine herself away.” 

Compassion and self-reproach had united to turn the heart of 
Myra, not so much to her step-mother as to the friend of her girl- 
hood, now left widowed and childless. She longed to weep with 
Elizabeth and console her. 

Elizabeth, however, had entered into brain fever with a rooted 
idea that Myra was in some way connected with the loss of her 
child. She came out of the disease with the same conviction. 
She refused to see Myra. 

“ She has profited by my poor baby’s loss — she is the cause 
of that loss; I know she is connected with it.” 

“Elizabeth, this is the wildest folly,” said Doctor Brice. 
“ Miss Barth has sorrowed deeply over the child’s disappearance. 
I never saw a girl so changed in two weeks as she is.” 

“ Then it is from remorse or fear,” insisted Elizabeth, “weak 
people are so obstinate.” 

“Your charge, Elizabeth, is monstrous and cruel; no one 
will support you in pressing it; it will only create scandal. 
Miss Barth is an orphan without relations, except those distant 
Wrigley cousins. You and she should be friends and sympathizers. 
You once were friends.” 

“ Once friends are the worst enemies,” sighed Elizabeth. 

“Nothing can exceed the desolation of you two if you do not 
live here in harmony,” said the doctor. 

“I will never see her. She hates my poor baby,” replied 
Elizabeth. “ She shall not come near me.” 

At this point Lady Barth seemed far more assured of Myra’s 


A LOST LOVER. 


45 


agency in the disappearance of little Rupert than Myra was 
herself. 

Myra spent hours and hours balancing proofs and arguments 
in her mind, pro and con. Was she or was she not the destroyer 
of her baby step-brother ? 

First : There was that peculiar and vivid dream. In early youth 
it had always happened that such dreams were sleep-walking, 
and that she did what she dreamed. 

Second: There was Timmy Titlow’s dream, dovetailing into 
her dream. She had seen the paragraph referring to it in the 
newspapers. 

Third: There was the searching of the reservoir and nothing 
found there. If thrown in, the body must have been found. And, 
finally, the strange conduct of her father’s dog distracted Myra. 
This animal pulled her gown, whined and howled whenever he 
saw her. 

Ailsa said he was going mad and must be killed. The other 
servants shook their heads and said all this action of the dog 
portended the young mistress’s early death or great misfortune. 

It grew in Myra’s mind that this dog must have seen her 
carry off the babe and knew where the corpse lay. 

This conviction so clung to her that finally, at all risk, she 
resolved to follow the dog, and find out the cause of his ex- 
citement. 

During all these days of mental agony and of confusion in her 
home, it was a proof of the strength of Myra’s mind and 
character that she pursued, in all outward things — in her dress 
and avocations — the usual tenor of her life. 

When she made up her mind one morning to follow the dog 
and see what disturbed him, she dressed herself for a walk. 

The period of deepest mourning for Sir Giles was past, and 
as the summer day was hot, Myra put on lighter than usual 
clothing. 

She looked not like a woman tortured by horrible apprehen- 
sions, searching for traces of her own mysterious crime, but a 
beautiful young girl in a black lawn dress, a scarf of white 
Brussels net, a chip hat trimmed with a black wreath and a white- 
lined black parasol, moving a shape of light and shade across 
the sunny fields ; a great dog, with nose held low, running before 
her. On she went, and her brute guide led her steps over the 


46 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


pathway of her dream. She shivered with apprehension in the 
hot summer air, but kept on, resolute as fate. 

Arrived at the top of the basin, the dog howled and whined, 
then ran one-fourth of the way round the margin and began to 
descend toward a cluster of houses. From the point where the 
animal howled he passed out of the region of Myra’s dreams. 

Down the incline went the dog and the lady, and on until 
arrived at a small, neat house, the first in a row. The door being 
open, a delicate woman sat in the little entry way, a happy ex- 
pression on her face, rocking a fine-looking child. 

Myra thought of Elizabeth, and her eyes dimmed with tears. 
Once it had seemed that her name should have been Hilary, or 
“the happy,” for only sunshine surrounded her, but for nearly 
two years now she had been stepping on from gloom to gloom, 
and justified her name of Myra, or “Weeping.” 

The dog laid his nose on the door-step and began a low com- 
plaint. 

The cottager, looking up, saw standing gazing at her a beauti- 
ful, grave lady, wearing mourning, and with sad eyes. 

Jane Porter’s maternal happiness overflowed in kindness to 
all the world. She rose. She said : 

“ Will my lady rest a bit? The day is hot.” 

“ Is that your baby ?” asked Myra. 

“Yes, indeed,” said Jane. “ Is he not a fine fellow?” 

“ She ’s clean doited about him, bein’ it ’s the first ever she 
had,” said Dame Chitton, thrusting her head from the next room. 

“ And are there no other babies in the house ?” 

“No, no,” said the dame, smiling; “one’s enough.” 

“ And would you like to give me that child?” said Myra. 

Jane hugge4 it to her bosom. 

“ Never ! Ah, never !” 

“ I like children,” said Myra. “ Is there no little waif near 
here that I could adopt ?” 

“No, there’s no strays about here,” said Dame Chitton, 
shortly. 

“You may kiss my baby, if you like,” said Jane, generously. 

Myra did not feel particularly interested in Jane’s baby, but 
she stooped and kissed it. 

The act fell like the blow of a sledge-hammer on James 
Wrigley, who was just driving by, and who saw with dismay Myra 


A LOST LOVER. 


47 


Barth face to face with Dame Chitton and Jane Porter and 
absolutely kissing her little lost brother ! 

The doctor reeled on his seat. 

He stopped his horse. He cried out : 

“ My cousin ! So far from home ! On foot !” 

Myra turned about, embarrassed. 

“I am restless and out for a walk with my dog. It is dull at 
our house, doctor.” 

“ You had better walk somewhere else. This will never 
do !” 

“We are going now,” said Myra, with a cool nod to the 
cottage people. 

And, calling her dog, she turned away. The dog came quietly. 
His canine conscience seemed set at rest by that morning’s 
expedition. He never again molested Myra. 

What the expedition meant or why the dog had thus behaved 
Myra could not guess. 

“What did she say?” asked Doctor Wrigley, getting out 
of his coupe under pretense of looking at Jane’s babe. 

“ Oh, only that she liked childer !” said Dame Chitton. 

“ And I suppose she ’s some dear young lady who has buried 
her baby,” said Jane Porter. 

“Yes — that is it,” said Doctor Wrigley. “But never let 
strangers be kissing your child or about it ; it may catch some 
infection.” 

Returned home that day, Myra sat down on a rose-sheltered 
garden-bank, the pink petals showering about her. Bright were 
her surroundings, but somber her thoughts. 

It was now three weeks since the receipt of the letter from 
Jasper Fitzroy’s partner in India — a letter that left India after 
Jasper did. 

Where, then, was Jasper ? 

For the first two weeks after that letter she had hourly expected 
him, and had shrunk, trembling, from meeting him. All was 
doubt and terror. She could not fulfill her pledge of freeing the 
Fitzroy estates from embarrassment, nor, indeed, her promise of 
marriage. To her excited and morbid mind she lay under the 
guilt of murder ; if she married, she would only bring into an 
honest family the stain of crime. 

She believed that some time or other the disappearance of the 


48 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


child would be traced home to her, and' she would be tried for her 
life. 

What a horror that Jasper’s wife should have this sword of 
Damocles hanging over her head. 

She intended to tell him that all things for her had changed, 
that she was resolved not to marry, and that he must return to 
India and forget her. This, without explanation or palliation, 
should be her statement to him. 

But now for a week new fears had arisen. She began to tremble 
for Jasper’s safety. 

“ Oh, to see him— if but once more — just to see him and part 
from him in tenderness and tears. 

She saw the noon mail going to the house and went in to 
look for letters. 

Disappointed of any news from her lover, in her restlessness she 
made up her mind to go and see Elizabeth, whom she had not 
met since the day when last her child was with her. 

The door of the widow’s room was open, and a keen pain 
stabbed Myra’s heart like a knife as she saw the estranged friend 
of her life, thin and wan, lying in an invalid’s chair, a heart-broken 
mockery of her former self. The joyous girl — the lovely bride, 
the proud mother — come to this !” 

u Elizabeth ! Oh, Elizabeth !” sighed Myra. 

The widow started as if stung. She saw her husband’s daughter 
— her once friend — regarding her. 

“ Away !” she cried. “ Away ! Don’t come near me ! Where 
is my boy ! Murderess /” 

She fell back in a convulsion. 

Her nurse ran to her but the other servants who had been 
near looked at Myra, who silently turned, and with head erect 
and unfaltering step walked down the hall for a few yards, and 
then fell as if struck with death. 

The housekeeper and others flew to her. 

Their sympathy had always been with their young lady, the 
heiress of the house. 

“ If this ain’t the crudest thing !” cried the housekeeper, as she 
unhooked Myra’s dress. 

“She to speak so to our young lady ! Dear knows, she was 
just a poor nobody, and taken here as a friend to our young 
miss, and here’s how she pays her for her condescension. Yes, 


A LOST LOVER. 


49 


Mrs. Wallace,” she continued to Ailsa, who was rubbing Myra’s 
hands, “a lady that marries an old man for his goods, and then 
goes and flings out the word murder to his daughter and 
rightful heir — why, what could you expect? She’ll get none of 
my sympathy, if her boy is lost !” 

“ Wirra the day, my loonnie lambie,” moaned Ailsa. “ Where 
is the far-back sin of this house that is now coming to judgment, 
and tfie evil of others to fall on her innocent head? The same 
roof shouldna cover the twa.” 

^ Never heed,” said the butler, as he helped to carry Myra to 
her room. “Lady Barth’s crazy — anyone will say so — and it 
will not be long for the poor soul to live under any roof, to my 
mind.” 

Except Ailsa, no one saw Myra again that day until the hour 
when, during all his later life, Sir Giles Barth had been wont 
to read prayers in the great dining-room. On this evening, at the 
usual hour, the prayer-bell clanged through the lower halls; the 
first time that the sound had been heard since Sir Giles’s 
death. 

Myra had commanded Ailsa to have this bell rung, and when 
the household had all gathered, except Lady Barth and her nurse, 
Myra entered by an upper door, took her place at the desk and 
in a firm voice read prayers. This done, as the servants rose 
from their knees, she could not trust herself to utter a word, but 
merely bowed as, headed by the housekeeper and followed by 
the butler and other servants, in regular order, they made their 
reverences to the young mistress and passed out. 

The next evening, however, Myra had something to say, and 
she said it plainly. 

“I do not wish any unfortunate ideas which exist in the mind 
of Lady Barth concerning myself to at all interfere with the duty 
which you owe to her. The widow of my father must receive 
from you every respect and consideration which her position and 
her great misfortunes demand. I want no partisanships here. 
If Lady Barth’s son is ever found, he will be rightful heir of all 
that his father possessed. Until he is found, or his death proved, 
all affairs will be conducted according to the best legal advice.” 

From that hour, Myra, with a strong hand, took her place as 
head of the household, and by the mere force of her character 
inaugurated perfect order and harmony in the establishment, 




A SLEEP-WALKER. 


except for that great, silent breach which existed between Eliza- 
beth Barth and herself. 

These two never met. 

Lady Barth recovered sufficiently to be wheeled along the 
veranda and through the grounds in her Bath chair, and Doctor 
Brice secured a reader and companion to cheer her doleful hours. 
These two had their meals in Lady Barth’s boudoir, while Myra 
and a lady who had been an early friend of Sir Giles’s first wife, 
Myra’s mother, kept their dismal dinner state in the smaller of 
the Barth dining-rooms. 

Despite the July glare and heat, this mansion seemed to lie 
in the cold shadows of the frigid zone. 

The only person who served at all as a link between Lady and 
Miss Barth was Lady Bidebank, their nearest neighbor, widow of 
Lord Henry Bidebank. 

As a widow, bereaved of her only child and heir, Lady Bidebank 
was able to enter into sympathy with Elizabeth, and poor Lady 
BarCi clung to her passionately, pouring out her wPes and repin- 
ings on her compassionate bosom. 

As the warm, early friend of Myra’s parents, and as one under 
whose eye Myra had grown up, Lady Bidebank was a tender 
friend to the desolate girl. To her only Myra breathed her 
anxieties about Jasper, who should have arrived long before, and 
Lady Bidebank sent for Mr. Mellodew. 

When Mr. Mellodew heard that Jasper Fitzroy had sailed from 
India in the Ocean Queen , his face fell. He knew that the 
Ocean Queen was long overdue ; that no further insurances could 
be had upon her, even at highest rates. 

“I will go to Lloyd’s,” he said, “ and see if there is any news.” 

There was no news then ; none until August. 

Then a column appeared in the papers, stating that the loss 
of the Ocean Queen added one more to the tales of sea horrors. 
The ship had been dismasted in a severe storm, having en- 
countered a hurricane off the Seychelles. The crew and the 
passengers had taken to the boats, as the ship seemed sinking ; 
one boat, with the first mate, three sailors and two ladies, had 
been picked up in the entrance of Mozambique Channel ; of the 
others nothing had been heard. 

This fatal record did not find Myra unprepared. She had fixed 
in her mind the idea that her lover was dead. Her love for Jasper 


A LOST LOVER. 


Si 


had been the main cause of her dislike of Elizabeth’s baby. Be- 
cause of Jasper she had grudged the child life. Therefore, she 
reasoned with herself, through Jasper vengeance would fall upon 
her. Her lover would perish ; she should never see him more. 

Better so, she bitterly told herself, than that he should return 
to find her changed, to hear her tell him that, for a reason 
which she could never explain, they must live as strangers. 

“Better so,” she felt, “than that he should persuade me into 
marriage and I should have children on whom should fall the 
judgment of my sin. After years and years, discovery and dis- 
grace might overtake me and ruin my family. Ah, good-bye, 
Jasper ! Sleep in the depths of the sea. Better so than return 
to be dismayed by the harvest of my sin — of my misfortunes.” 

So long the search for little Rupert had lasted that no one now 
ever expected that he would be found. 

“ It puts you in a trying position,” said Mr. Mellodew to Myra. 
“If the boy turns up, he heirs everything. Therefore, now you 
hardly know what is yours nor on what terms you may marry.” 

“Say no more,” replied Myra; “my mind is made up; I 
shall never marry. Jasper Fitzroy is lost, and no other shall 
ever claim me. If the child is found, let him have his own.” 

And so, by degrees, Myra began, aided by Mr. Mellodew and 
advised by one or two friends of her late father, to administer all 
the Barth estate, and she and Elizabeth held each her solitary way 
in the two wings of that wide mansion, between which that empty 
nursery seemed to be the great gulf which could never be 
crossed. 

“You should not feel hate to Myra,” said Lady Bidebank to 
Lady Barth ; “Jasper Fitzroy, her lover, has been lost at sea.” 

“That is the vengeance of heaven on her,” said Lady Barth, 
hugging her bitterness to her heart. 

“ My cousin,” said James Wrigley— who always pressed his 
relationship to the Barths— “if you intend never to marry, and 
I believe that you are a person who never changes her mind 
— if you never marry, our eldest will be next heir after us, and 
why not take him now into your family — adopt him ?” 

“Not while Lady Barth lives,” said Myra. “ She shall never 
be put to the pain of seeing another child running about here, in 
her child’s room.” 

“As you say ; but are you resolved not to marry.” 


52 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ Never unless Lady Barth’s child inherits his own, and Jasper 
Fitzroy returns from the depths of the sea.” 

It was about a year from the time when the infant Rupert 
disappeared that one day Doctor Wrigley met Sam Porter in 
the grounds of Barth House. 

“ If you please, sir, I ’m hired here,” said Sam. 

“I’ve been looking for you all day, Sam,” said Doctor 
Wrigley, on the spur of the moment. “ My man is going to leave, 
and I want you back with me.” 

“ I couldn’t, sir,” said Sam. “Wages here is quite uncom- 
mon good ; but the best of it is, the young lady told me that as 
my wife is delicate, I might bring her here into the woods and 
by-alleys, these hot summer days ; and sir, I wheel Jane and the 
baby here two or three times a week. It ’s a long pull, but I 
brought a Bath chair, second-hand, for Jane, and she and the 
child enjoy it, and pick up amazing.” 

“ Jane and the baby !” cried Doctor Wrigley. 

“ Why, what’s wrong, sir ?” 

“ Nothing,” said the doctor. 

But to his view, a deal was wrong. Here was Sir Rupert Barth 
visiting his ancestral woods, and breathing his native air ! 

Porter continued : 

“ But I ’ll need be careful. Only yesterday, Jane, with the child 
on her lap, was under a tree, when Lady Barth’s Bath chair 
came by, and she spoke to Jane and looked at the child, and Jane 
told its age ; and I reckon it brought back her own child that the 
servants told me died, for she began to take on dreadful, and has 
been ill all day.” 

“Well never let her see the child again, unless you want to 
cause her death,” cried the doctor. 

What, had Lady Barth seen her child, and had not known it ? 

“But no wonder,” said the doctor to himself. “The child 
has none of its mother’s pale beauty, nor is it like Sir Giles. A 
great black-eyed, bouncing boy— how should she claim it?” 

Within a week, Sam Porter was discharged by the butler. 

Doctor Wrigley had warned Myra that he was a dangerous 
fellow, not fit to keep about the place. 

“You couldn’t find a worse chap,” said the good Wrigley. 


A TERRIBLE CRIME. 


53 


CHAPTER VI. 

A TERRIBLE CRIME. 

The morning after his dismissal from Barth House, Sam Porter 
repaired to Doctor Wrigley. 

“I’d be glad of the place you mentioned a week ago. I’m 
turned out of yonder ; why, I can’t tell.” 

“ Ah, but you said you would not take service with me, and I 
arranged with my other man,” said Wrigley. 

Sam searched for work for a fortnight, but times were hard 
and he could find nothing to do. Then Re went back to his 
friend , the doctor. 

“Sir, can't you help me to summat to do ? I seem to need 
work more than another man; for my Jane is so delicate, and 
there’s many a little thing needed for her that stronger women 
never want.” 

“I’ll tell you, Sam,” said Doctor Wrigley. “This country 
is too full of men without fortunes. Now take my advice : 
Sell out your furniture, pack up your bed-clothes, and go to 
America. There you can get land and make a fortune. You ’ll 
be rich in twenty years. There ’s nothing like emigration.” 

“ But,. sir, Jane would die of the voyage.” 

“ No ; it would do her good.” 

“ But she cannot live away from her mother, and the dame 
will never emigrate. She wants to be buried by her husband and 
sons.” 

“'Better emigrate than go to an almshouse. If she is buried 
by the poor-officers, they ’ll take no heed to where she asked to 
lie. Times are going to be worse.” 

“ But, sir, I ’ve nothing to go abroad with. I ’ve laid up 
nothing, sir.” 

“No poor fellow can in this country,” replied the wily doctor; 
“but I belong to a society that helps emigrants, and I’ll do 
something for you on my own account. The country life on your 
farm in America would cure Jane and that child would grow up a 
gentleman and a landed proprietor. You shall all have steerage 
passage and a hundred pounds in pocket, if you ’ll go.” 


54 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


Sam Porter was overcome with gratitude. 

“ Sir, you ’re the best friend ever a poor fellow had. I ’ll talk 
over the women folks.” 

But the “women folks” belonging to Sam Porter were very 
hard to talk over. They preferred a crust in old England to pastry 
in America. Dame Chitton feared the sea and cleaved to the 
church-yard where her family slept ; and Jane feared strange 
ways and strange faces. 

“ Think of the child, Jane !” cried Sam, pointing to the little 
Sir Rupert, toddling proudly along, long before the time when 
he would have taken his first steps, if left in his hereditary 
nursery. 

“ The doctor says in America he can become a rich and 
learned man, be a jufre or a judge or whatsoever they have in those 
countries. He looks the making of such high-style people !” 

“Don’t he?” said Jane, surveying her treasure-trove with 
fondness. “ He looks just like quality — just like rich children, 
not a bit like poor peoples’ youngsters. Do see him, Sam !” 

“Well, I’ve heard say there was high blood in our family, 
too, once upon a time, and now it ’s coming to the fore,” inter- 
posed Dame Chitton, who feared the effects of a discussion of this 
waifs appearance. 

“Then, for the child’s good, let us emigrate,” said Sam. But 
the mother and the dame insisted that the child’s good would be 
as well served in England as elsewhere. 

“I’ll never get them to go unless they’re clean starved,” re- 
ported Sam to his honorable patron. 

As Doctor Wrigley believed it absolutely necessary to the 
fortunes of his own family that the inauspicious infant, who was 
constantly nearing the original channel of its existence, should be 
got out of the neighborhood of Barth House, he set himself to 
thinking how to be rid of the Porter family, and hit upon a 
method less expensive to himself than the emigration scheme. 

The doctor told Sam that he would pay him a pound if he 
would carry at midnight a note to Tony Pettigrew, who lived in 
a little place near the gate of Tower Hamlets cemetery, around 
which the country at that time was little built up. Sam agreed 
with alacrity to earn so much money. Wrigley then wrote to the 
captain of a vessel lying off the Isle of Dogs, telling him that on 
a certain midnight a stalwart young fellow, fit for sea service on a 


A TERRIBLE CRIME. 


55 


long voyage, would be found by a certain cabin indicated near 
Tower Hamlets cemetery. This young fellow Doctor Wrigley 
desired should be taken out of the country and kept out. 
The ship to which this note went was bound for Japan, round 
the Cape of Good Hope, intending to remain in the trade between 
Japan and Siam. It was a rascally ship, manned by rascals, and 
Doctor Wrigley had a hold over the captain on account of a burial 
or two and some contrabrand trading. He had only to say the 
word, and this captain would kidnap poor Sam and keep him a 
fast prisoner. 

Sam, blithely telling his wife that he had an errand across 
London for Doctor Wrigley, bade her good-bye — alas, for- 
ever ! 

He went on his errand, and at last was knocking lustily on 
Tony Pettigrew’s door; but Tony Pettigrew had been summoned 
away that very noon by the doctor. 

As Sam Porter stood pounding on the empty dwelling, several 
dark shadows stole around the house corner. One tripped up his 
heels, one bound his arms behind him, one gagged him, two 
wrapped him head and foot in a blanket. Sam kicked and 
scuffled with all his strength. 

“Zounds!” cried the leader. “The rascal is game worth 
bagging! Lay on to him, my hearties ! Here’s a fine recruit 
for the Sea Snake /” 

So sudden was the assault, so overpowering were the numbers 
of his antagonists, that Sam had no hope of escape ; yet his 
herculean efforts aroused the sympathy and rough admiration of 
his captors. 

Rolled up like an unwieldy bundle, Sam was hurried down 
Turner and several other roads, dropped into a long-boat at Lime- 
house Pier, and rowed out to a ship lying in Limehouse Reach, 
where, being dumped into a little cell, with a pane of thick glass 
about as big as his hand, he was allowed to lie without food for 
half the next day, with no more enlivening scenery than that 
afforded by the slimy levels of the Isle of Dogs. 

That Sam should be gone all night did not alarm his wife; but 
when all day passed and he did not come, Dame Chitton repaired 
to Doctor Wrigley’s office. 

“ Do you know where Sam is, sir?” 

“No,” said Doctor Wrigley, boldly, “and I don’t want to 


56 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


know. He ’s a lazy fellow. I sent him on an errand, and he 
never went.” 

“ Oh, but he did, sir. Off at nine last evening, anxious to 
serve you.” 

“ He never !” retorted the doctor. “Here’s Tony Pettigrew 
says he was home all night, and Sam never came near the place.” 

Then, sir, summat evil has overtaken him. He went on your 
errand, and we ’ve not seen him since. My Jane will be clean daft.” 

Doctor Wrigley returned in silence to his newspaper. 

Dame Chitton pulled the end of the printed sheet. 

“ Say, sir, what can have come to him?” 

“ How can I tell, woman? Very likely he has run off, being 
tired of striving to maintain a pair of foolish women, who would 
not hear reason and emigrate when he had a chance.” 

“ Sam would never desert us like that,” said the dame, with 
indignation. 

But Sam was not to go and leave no sign. One of his captors, 
drawn to him by his bold fight, took occasion next evening to 
carry him food and good advice. He clinched the good advice 
by telling Sam that if he ’d make the best of the inevitable and 
cheerily take up his new duties, he would venture so far for him 
as to mail any note which he might desire to send to his friends. 
Sam accordingly scratched these lines on a bit of waste paper: 

“Dear Jane and Mother Chitton : I ’m kidnaped and going out to sea 
to-night, and as there is no hope for me to escape, I must even do my duty 
till the day comes to set me free. Dear Jane, I fear never to see you more— 
I fear you will all perish with no one to care for you. My heart is broke. 
Dear Jane, we all will die, and our blood will lie on them as had a hand 
in it. Sam.” 

Dame Chitton, weeping plentifully, carried this note to Dr. 
James Wrigley. 

“ It is all your own fault,” said he, grimly. “ Why did you 
not go to America? There’s no kidnaping there. And, after 
all, dame, he ’ll get his wage and his board and clothes.” 

“But Jane’s clean undone about it, sir. She just sits and 
moans and hugs that child. Oh, me, I wonder if it is a judg- 
ment on us for keeping one as was not our own and angering the 
Lord by a lie ?” 

“ Well, you and Jane must get on the best you can. Go some- 
where where you can have one room, and not a whole house.” 


A TERRIBLE CRIME. 


57 


In spite of this advice, intended to effect the losing of Sir 
Rupert in the by-ways and dens of London, this little disfranchised 
knight was still kept in the dangerous neighborhood of his own 
home. 

Dame Chitton found a room with one of her neighbors, and 
sought by Jane’s knitting and her own charring to keep off hun- 
ger and cold. 

It was weary work that winter, but Rupert, defended by the 
intense love of his mother, always had a warm corner and enough 
to eat, and throve surprisingly amid his disadvantages. 

In February Jane’s battle for bread ceased. Dame Chitton, 
waking one morning, found her daughter lying dead beside her, 
with the rosy child which she believed to be her own hugged to 
her chilling bosom. Thus, in the twenty months of his life so far, 
Sir Rupert had lost two mothers. 

With the failing of her daughter’s life the springs of Dame 
Chitton’s courage seemed to fail, and she presently sank into 
a low fever. 

It was then that the poor neighbors thought that Doctor 
Wrigley acted very generously by the remnants of his former 
servant’s family. 

Doctor Wrigley secured Dame Chitton’s admission to an alms- 
house and said that he would provide for the infant himself. 

Admiring eyes followed Doctor Wrigley as he gave the babe a 
big red mint-stick, set him on the front seat of a cab, sat down 
opposite him and whirled off toward London. 

Little Rupert was fairly getting beyond the reach of his legiti- 
mate home. 

“There’s few gentlemen,” quoth the admiring beholders, 
“which would take that much trouble for a stray brat.” 

But Doctor Wrigley took further trouble of which no one knew 
but himself. 

He put the child to board for a week. 

He himself boarded in London for a week. 

He advertised in this wise : 

U tt r ANTED — A party to adopt a male child. Twenty pounds premium. 

VV Apply at 6 Napier Street, Hoxton.” 

Here Doctor Wrigley very nearly fell into a snare. The very 
first person who called to discuss this adoption was— of all 


58 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


people in the world — Lady Bidebank ! She was ushered into the 
shabby drawing-room which Doctor Wrigley had hired for the 
occasion, and there, sitting solitary by the grate, was her neigh- 
bor, Doctor Wrigley. 

“ How surprising, doctor ! What does this mean ?” 

“ My lady — my dear lady, this is no place for you !” cried the 
doctor, never losing a whit of his self-possession. 

“ I called,” said her ladyship, “ to see about a child advertised 
for adoption ; but you here ! Surely you have never — ” 

The doctor laughed. 

“Surely I have never advertised one of the little Wrigleys, 
though there are six of them and a prospect; and very little to 
feed them on, eh, my lady? No, I came here to see about 
adopting this child for one of my patients, but the advertiser went 
out on an excuse and left me here unconscionably long. I fancy 
he never means to return, so you and I had better both depart, 
my lady. The child here is out of the question; it has a 
hare-lip.” 

The doctor escorted her to her coupe, and rode with her to 
k the West End. 

The next visitor to the doctor was of the very kind for which 
he lay in wait like a spider in his den. Here was the veritable 
baby-farmer; her iniquitous trade written in every line of her 
cruel, false face, every turn of her gaudily dressed figure, every 
tone of her wheedling voice. 

“ I am looking for a child to adopt, sir. Me and my husband 
has been so unfortunate with our children. A boy, you said, sir; 
and twenty pounds to go with it ? And what agfe, sir?” 

“ Twenty months.” 

“ Ah, sir, I wish it was littler. I ’m affectionate. I take to 
small babes more, sir; and twenty pounds is but little, sir !” 

“ Enough for forty people to have run after. If you want my 
case, why give me your true address, and I ’ll call on you to-mor- 
row. How long have you lived where you are ?” 

“ A month, sir.” 

“ And how long in your last lodging — six weeks?” 

“ Aye, sir.” 

“ And before that?” 

“ Mebby three month.” 

“ Did you ever live six months anywhere?” 


A TERRIBLE CRIME. 


59 


“ Well, once, sir.” 

“ Leave your address. If I’m satisfied I ’ll take the boy to you 
to-morrow. Of course, you ’ll treat him well ?” 

“I always do my best,” whined Baby-Farmer. 

“ How many children have you lost?” 

“Three or more, sir. Don’t harrow up a mother’s feelin’s.” 

Doctor Wrigley gathered from this interview that here was a 
woman whose sole business was baby -farming j that she lost most 
of her foundlings ; that she lost so many that she dared not stay 
long in one neighborhood. 

A visit to the locality where Mrs. Baby-Farmer lived confirmed 
these impressions. The neighbors said she had a number of 
small children with her. The children were cared for by the 
woman, her husband and a girl of fourteen. They were sickly 
children, but the woman did as well as she could for them. 

The following afternoon, Doctor Wrigley, who in his visit to 
the baby-farmer’s rookery in Eastfield Street, Stepney, had been 
well disguised, left in that unsavory locality the little Sir Rupert 
Barth. 

Among the puny, haggard, whining babes slowly dying in the 
fostering care of the baby-farmer, little Sir Rupert shone like a 
great garden rose among sickly cellar plants. 

Doctor Wrigley had not examined Mrs. Farmer’s interior, nor 
had he inspected the children of her loving adoption. The 
doctor did not desire to make the downward road which he was 
pursuing any more disastrous and distressing than it must nec- 
essarily be. He might as well take it for granted that his outcast 
little cousin was in good enough quarters ; and, for that matter, 
Stepney Almshouse was not so far off, and if “anything went 
wrong” with the child, it could be conveyed thither. 

The baby-farmer had one room and a sleeping-closet. In the 
room she cooked, fed her family what food they got, washed and 
dried whatever clothes direst need forced her to cleanse, and 
here she, with her husband and a boy of six, whom it was for her 
interest to keep alive, and three babies, slept. The boy and one 
baby lay on a cot ; two babies on a bed of straw on the floor. In 
the bed-closet the girl of fourteen, her niece, a half silly creature, 
and four children slept. 

The air of this den fairly reeked with foul smells. If two panes 
of glass had not been lacking to the one window, and if the sill of 


6o 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


the door had not been entirely worn away, the whole family 
would have died of asphyxia. The children slept in their day 
clothing; rarely had they any clothes changed; they were 
allowed, when they felt uncomfortable, to wail and cry until they 
were exhausted, unless the attention of the neighbors was 
attracted, when they got “a bit of quieting drops,” meaning a 
stiff portion of laudanum. 

Mrs. Baby-Farmer did not, like some of her class, beat or 
torture her nurselings, as at any time she was liable to run the 
gantlet of a coroner’s inquest, and external, unexplainable injuries 
might be troublesome. 

About nine in the morning Mrs. B. F.’s children had milk and 
water with a little brown sugar and flour boiled in it. At noon, 
dry crusts — the product of the boy’s begging — soaked in hot 
water and salted. At night, a crust, a cold potato, or milk 
and water, according to age. 

The seven adopted children varied in ages from one month to 
two years, and the night that Sir Rupert arrived Mrs. Baby- 
Farmer put on her poorest clothing, and taking a miserable 
three-month-old skeleton in her maternal arms, carried it to the 
Stepney Almshouse, complaining that she was too poor and too 
ignorant to attend to her babe, and having other children to do 
for, she wanted this one taken in, “ to save its poor, dear, little 
life.” 

“ It looks as if it had been half-starved,” said the almshouse 
physician. 

“ Sir, your honor, I goes hungry to feed my children. But 
maybe it is half-starved foreby, for times is hard and I’m most 
desprit poor.” 

The state obligingly took this babe of disgrace, which Baby- 
Farmer had received fifteen pounds for adopting; and taking it, 
made room for this enterprising woman to’adopt the next child 
offered in baby market with a premium. 

Into these tender mercies had Sir Rupert Barth fallen. 


A MODERN MEDEA. 


6 1 


CHAPTER VII. 

A MODERN MEDEA. 

Among Mrs. Baby-Farmer’s wretched specimens of infancy, Sir 
Rupert lifted himself like a sturdy Scotch thistle, self-asserting 
and tenacious of existence. He had been used to petting, to being 
played with, to cleanliness, light and air ; to screaming for what- 
ever he saw that he desired, and getting whatever he screamed for. 

Remitted to filth, gloom and hunger, Sir Rupert roared lustily; 
the power of his lungs seemed inexhaustible ; they would have 
filled the huge rooms of his ancestral mansion, and the noise 
seemed likely to bring down the trembling walls of the fourth story 
den in Eastfield Street, Stepney. 

“ Let the little beast bawl it out — he ’ll tire,” quoth Mrs. Baby- 
Farmer, sipping hot gin and water, while the niece and the 
“ boy ” squabbled over the remnants left in the begging basket. 

But the scion of the aristocracy was able to tire out this new 
parent of adoption before he tired out himself; he expatiated 
on every note in the gamut. 

Mrs. Baby-Farmer rose in her wrath and struck him a blow on 
the side of his head which laid him prostrate. 

It was the first indignity of the kind which the juvenile knight 
had ever received. 

Instead of sobbing himself into a coma, with a pitiful “mam, 
mam, mam,” as did Mrs. B. F’s other nurslings, he redoubled 
his shrieks to such an extent that the neighbors came to inquire 
after the cause of uproar. 

The visits of neighbors were undesirable where two or three 
babies were lying about in a comatose condition, induced by semi- 
starvation and opiates, and another was gloomily moaning over a 
cut head, for which nobody cared. 

“ He ’s roarin’ after his mammy,” explained Mrs. B. F., “and 
there ’s no way but to let he howl till he’s done. His mammy ’s 
dead, which / ain’t to blame for.” 

“Dear, dear,” said one of the neighbors, glancing about, 
“your children do look dreadful peaked.” 


62 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ There’s my twins,” quoth Mrs. B. F., pointing to two found- 
lings by different mothers, but nearly of equal age; “ they've had 
cholera infantum with their teeth. They ’ll pull through byme- 
by. And that there one my dead sister left me. Poor as I am, 
I must keep him , and he ’s always been sickly. I do the best I 
can.” 

The troublesome guests having departed, Baby-Farmer con- 
cluded it time to stop Sir Rupert’s protestations against his sur- 
roundings — and poured a spoonful of laudanum down his throat. 

The child’s healthy stomach rejected the overdose, and Mrs. 
Baby-Farmer pronounced him the most diabolical brat ever she 
had to handle. 

The farming of infants put this precious pair of criminals in 
possession of an income that would have made amply comfortable 
a decent working family. But to them money meant gin-mills, 
music-halls and penny-theatres, with the most of their meals at 
cellar restaurants, where they could feed themselves without the 
expense of feeding their family. 

The boy in their possession was to have five hundred pounds 
when he arrived at the age of sixteen. They had kept him alive 
and humored him, in a grim fashion, in order to share this money 
when it came into his hands. 

The niece was fed that she might serve as a sole attendant in 
this over-full nursery. 

The food of this pair was begged by the boy, whose mendi- 
cancy was supplemented by the girl going once a week to ask aid 
of certain Sisters of Charity, who bestowed on her loaves of 
bread. Often all day and all night the blessed adopter of chil- 
dren would be off, intent on dissipation, while the miserable 
infants pined uncared-for. Excursions were also made for a dis- 
tance of thirty miles around London, where children had been 
advertised for adoption — with a premium. 

“I take the child for pure love,” Mrs. Baby-Farmer would 
observe, “ being so unfort’nit’ as I have lost my own — bless its 
heart ! But the money ’’—hiding in safety the premium— “ Lord ! 
I only take that to put in savings-bank against this little dear is 
grown up enough to need a premium for apprenticing it. Oh, me 
and my man, we ’re decent, hard-workin’ folk. We can support 
our home and the child, but we ’re so free-handed to our poor 
neighbors we don’t lay up much.” 


A MODERN MEDfiA. 


&3 


And then the premium would soon be spent in feasting, drink- 
ing? gambling and dances; and before long another little grave in 
some potter’s field would add to the list of Baby-Farmer’s 
victims. 

In this atmosphere of villainy and misery little Sir Rupert’s rosy 
skin soon became chalky, his eyes lost their fire, the brown curls, 
which Jane Porter had loved, were a dirty mat, his flesh was 
flabby and the strength of his lungs no longer daunted his adopt- 
ive mother. 

Other babies died or found their way to the almshouse to die 
there, or one was left exposed in an arch for the police to pick 
up ; and other babies were brought to Eastfield Street, Stepney, 
clean and fat when they came — weak, lean and subdued in a few 
weeks’ time. 

And while Sir Rupert Barth was fighting for his life with all the 
vigor of an originally good constitution, strengthened by a well- 
tended infancy, spring passed, and the heats of summer came. 

It was natural that Mrs. Baby-Farmer’s niece should desire 
the refreshing of the outer air,, even of such air as came into the 
lanes and corners about Eastfield Street ; and as her aunt was 
off from morning until night, this wretched little nurse was wont 
to take one of the babies, the one which she instinctively felt was 
the worst off, and carrying it with her, she would sit down on a 
curb-stone or a door-step ; and as the child lay unnoticed and 
unnoticing on her knees, she, with lack-luster eyes, would watch 
the passers-by. 

This dismal girl and her dismal charge drew the attention of a 
stalwart policeman newly on that beat. Miserable girls and 
their baby charges were no unusual spectacles in that locality, 
but fatherhood made this man tender of heart, and he bestowed 
on the hungry-looking girl two cakes. These luxuries robbed 
the “beak” of terrors and, indeed, placed him in the light of a 
friend, and instead of keeping out of the way, as her judicious 
aunt would have advised, the girl went studiously in his way, to 
get cakes. 

Thus, for a day or two, the policeman remarked the shriveled, 
half-insensible infant, dirty and spotted with sores occasioned by 
paucity of blood. 

A week after he found the girl again by the gutter — a child on 
her lap. 


6 4 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


‘'What! That child no better?” he said, pausing. “Why, 
this is another one ; that one had red hair !” 

“ Mom took t’ other one to almshouse to doctor.” 

“ But are they twins V 1 asked the policeman. 

“Yes; they ’s twins.” 

“Well, there’s a cracker, and here’s a penny, < o into yon’ 
shop and buy that poor little creature milk.” 

Following the example of her elders, her aunt’s niece spent the 
penny for herself. 

Hardly had the policeman become accustomed to the bald- 
headed “twin,” red-hair having vanished, than this, too, disap- 
peared, and he found his juvenile protegee with a third infant of 
about the same size, and just as miserable in state. 

“ What ! Another baby ? Where is the one you had last week, 
girl ?” 

“ It ’s dead. Won’t you give me a penny ? I’m awful hungry, 
and mom ’s off working.” 

“‘Dead?’ Well, where did this child come from? It surely 
isn’t a twin, too ?” 

The girl hung her head, but “tuppence” loosened her tongue, 
and she responded: 

“ This one's ’ dopted .” 

“ ‘ Adopted /’ ” quoth Police, turning on his heel. “I’ll be 
blamed if I don’t believe there ’s mischief there.” 

This third infant being entered to die at Stepney Almshouse, 
our niece next appeared on the side-walk with Sir Rupert 
Barth in charge. Rupert could no longer run alone. 

The policeman, who was on the watch for his hungry young 
friend, bore down on her with a couple of stale buns, and while 
she devoured these he scrutinized the child on her lap, a large- 
limbed boy, with a black heart on one leg, as if it had been 
there painted or tattooed. The child’s mat of chestnut curls re- 
minded the policeman of the head that, at a certain window, 
watched for his own home-coming. 

The hands of this child were beautiful, though wasted ; the 
features, over which the clayey skin was tightly drawn, were 
perfectly molded, and there was an intense, an awful pathos in 
the dark eyes fixed on the strong man’s face. 

“ See here,” said Police, “ where did this child come from ?” 

“ It’s mom’s.” 


















































































































































































A MODERN MEDEA. 65 

u Don’t tell me that stuff. This and the twins can’t belong to 
one mother.” 

“ Well, then, mebby — mebby it’s one of the ’dopted uns.” 

“ See here, my girl, you show me where you live.” 

But the girl began weeping. 

“I daren’t ! She’ll kill me ! She told me never to take no 
baby out of the ’ouse. She said they ’d catch cold. And she ’ll 
beat me if she sees a beak. She ’s awful feared o’ beaks.” 

“Is she home now?” 

“ No, she ’s off somewhere. She has awful good times. She 
goes to shows and dances, but me and bub, we had to nuss the 
young uns.” 

“ Come, then. Show me where you live, and I ’ll be off before 
she comes; and see — I ’ll give you sixpence.” 

“A tanner! A real tanner! Oh, me an’ bub can buy 
saveloys. Well, I ’ll show you, only don’t stop.” 

She picked up the light burden of Sir Rupert and was hurrying 
off, but the man made her stop at a shop and give the famished 
child a cup of milk. 

Having climbed the staircase to the fourth story, the policeman 
found the reeking interior of a baby-farmer’s premises. 

On the straw in the corner lay the largest of the foundlings, 
which the girl said had cried in the night, but was now asleep. 

The child was dead from an overdose of morphine. 

“Dirt, destitution, debauchery,” said the policeman, as he 
took notes of the case. “Now, girl, what almshouse did she 
take the babies to ?” 

“Yon, to Stepney.” 

Back to his beat, and, being relieved, off to the inspector’s 
office, with his sergeant, to whom he had reported the dreadful 
den with its seven foul, pining children and the little, lean corpse. 
Then a visit to the almshouse at Stepney. And when, that 
afternoon, Mrs. Baby-Farmer had reeled home and was sitting 
on the side of her bed, trying to make up her mind what to do 
with the dead child, two policemen arrested her, one went to 
search for her husband, and a third delivered over the whole 
family of adoption to two decent old women, brought by Mr. 
Inspector, who, under a physician’s orders, were to wash and feed 
this unhappy crew. 

“To be parted from me darlin’s !” screamed Mrs. Baby- 


66 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


Farmer. “Me as loves ’em so! With me heart breakin’ 
over me dear sister’s child who has dropped away while I was out 
charrin’ to earn money to buy him a few oranges !” 

“You are wanted at Stepney Almshouse,” said her captors, 
pulling her unceremoniously. 

“ I won’t go one step !” 

However, she could be dragged, if she could not walk ; and 
after bumping down two pairs of stairs, by force of being pulled 
by the arms in a sitting position, she concluded it would be more 
comfortable to go on her feet. 

At Stepney Almshouse, she was led to the dead-room. There 
an emaciated little corpse, the bluish skin mottled with red 
spots produced by starvation, lay on the table. 

“ Who is this ?” asked the policeman. 

“This is Emma,” she replied; then looking more closely, 
she added: “ No, this is Alice,” and she was about to stoop and 
kiss the corpse, when one of the men, in disgust, jerked her 
away. 

She was led into the sick-ward of the nursery department. 
A nurse sat with another shriveled creature on her lap ; it had 
been made clean in the almshouse, and they had been striving 
to save its life. 

“ Will it live ?” asked a policeman, honest tears in his eyes at 
the wretched spectacle. 

“We can’t say yet. Is that the murdering hag ?” 

“‘ Murdering?’ ” gasped Mrs. Baby-Farmer. 

“ You are likely to be up for manslaughter.” 

“This one is Emma. I ’m not to blame. I did my very best. I 
never touched one of them.” 

“There was one came herewith a broken arm,” said the nurse. 

“ That one fell out of bed.” 

At the almshouse door stood the jail-wagon, and Mrs. Baby- 
Farmer was conveyed to Fleet Prison, and an hour after her 
husband found the same shelter. 

The next morning the papers were full of the baby-farming 
horror. All London rang with it. 

Reporters described the horrible upper rooms where the 
“adopted ” children had pined to death. 

The cases carried to Stepney Almshouse were detailed. 

The deaths which apothecaries’ clerks had certified to, instead 


A MODERN MEDEA. 


67 


of proper physicians, were enumerated. The street arab, old 
in crime at six, who was to inherit five hundred pounds, was 
commented on, the public being assured that the court would 
put him in charge of some proper person, to root out evil from 
his character and implant good. The niece had her place in 
the public columns. Some saving institution would fall heir to 
her, and the reporters dwelt on one very beautiful child — a boy, 
somewhat past two years old — dark eyes and hair, apparently 
of a very vigorous constitution, with whom Mrs. Baby-Farmer 
had received twenty pounds ; a child who seemed likely to survive 
his ill treatment, as now he was getting the best of care. 

Bulletins concerning the health of the other waifs were issued, 
and all England became interested. The death of ten children 
while under the care of Mr. and Mrs. Baby-Farmer had been 
ascertained. Medical testimony was obtained, and the pair were 
on trial for manslaughter. 

The news of this shameful tragedy going everywhere reached 
the seclusion of Lady Barth. It harrowed her feelings, while 
with morbid pertinacity she sought for every line of detail. 

“It fascinates me and it drives me wild,” said Lady Barth to 
her friend, Lady Bidebanlc. “ I pore over every word of it, and 
it strikes daggers to my soul. I think of those poor, harmless 
babies being slowly done to death, and a great house like this 
empty of a little child. Then it haunts me that my dear darling 
may not be dead, and maybe is exposed to just such horrors. Oh, 
my child ! My child !” 

“ But no one would carry off a child to put it in such a place,” 
remonstrated Lady Bidebank. 

“ And, then, that beautiful child that they describe, a boy, 
just the age of my boy and dark eyes. My child had dark eyes 
and was large. Oh, Lady Bidebank, I think of that child, 
and I mingle its idea with my own, until it seems to drag at my 
very heart-strings and I feel its pain; and at night I lie awake 
and weep as it is weeping.” 

“You have ventured too much, reading this horrible story in 
your weak state.” 

“ My friend, I am wild on the subject. I have been on the 
point of sending my nurse or my companion to see that child 
and report to me about it. I have even thought that I had 
better adopt it, and by lavish care make amends to it for its bad 


68 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


past. I do not know but I should be happier if I had a child to 
interest myself in. The little one might be to me a well of 
strength, and when I die I have a little money to leave it.” 

“ Perhaps it would be a comfort to you. I have often thought 
of doing the same thing myself.” 

“ Dear Lady Bidebank, won’t you go and see this child ? 
Can you not go for me, and find out if the little one is improv- 
ing, and if things were as bad as they say?” 

Lady Bidebank agreed to go next day. 

She reported that the child was very beautiful and attractive, 
and was now being well cared for. It might recover. At present 
it must stay where it was. Some of the others were also doing 
well. 

With the petulance of disease, Lady Barth urged that Lady 
Bidebank should make repeated visits to the child. 

As Lady Bidebank reported the bOy’s improvement and present 
comfortable surroundings, Lady Barth’s morbid interest in him 
began to fail. 

“ He might soon be sent to you, if you persevere in your 
intention of adopting him,” said Lady Bidebank. 

“I don’t know as I ought to adopt him,” replied the variable 
invalid; “it would seem like putting another in my little lost 
love’s place ; like casting my own darling out of my heart. And 
then I should soon die, and the child would be orphaned. Oh, I 
think, Lady Bidebank, that some one else must take this child !” 

But Lady Bidebank had become deeply interested in this 
unlucky infant ; his beauty, his patience in illness, his artless, 
grateful ways had captivated her fancy ; and as Lady Barth gave 
up her first notion of taking the boy, Lady Bidebank concluded 
to adopt him. 

“Lady Barth,” she said, a week later, “as you, and very 
properly in your weak state, did not take the child we were speak- 
ing of, I adopted him myself. He has been at my house two days. 

I have a capital nurse for him, and as soon as in dress, health 
and manners he is what a nice baby should be, I will bring him 
to see you.” 

About a fortnight after this, then, Lady Bidebank might have 
been seen walking through the adjoining grounds of Barth and 
Bidebank, a nurse following her with a baby-coach, and little Sir 
Rupert in an embroidered dress, a hat with a waving plume, 


A MODERN MEDEA. 


69 


a little blue-velvet coat and blue kid boots, was carried up the 
staircase of the east wing and set down on the couch of his own 
mother ! 

Lady Barth’s blue eyes, dimmed by much weeping, looked into 
the laughing black orbs of her baby guest. But behind the 
smiles in Sir Rupert’s eyes was a dew of tears, an expression 
fixed there by his experiences with a baby-farmer. 

The wasted white hands of Lady Barth caressed the plump, 
pink fingers, whose infant clasp she had loved to feel. A deep 
tenderness welled up in her soul. She sighed : 

“ Oh, I wish I had taken him ! But it is better as it is. You 
will live until he has grown up. But — will you call him for my 
lost baby ? Will you call him Rupert Barth ?” 

Lady Bidebank had decided on another name, but of that she 
was silent. She assented to her friend’s proposition, and our 
infant received the name to which he had been born, the Bide- 
bank being added. 

Therefore nothing seemed so to console Lady Barth as a visit 
from this child, and he was sent to her room every day. 

Amusing herself with her little guest as one might with a doll, 
Lady Barth one day took off her small visitor’s shoes and stock- 
ings to admire his feet. 

‘‘Why, Lady Bidebank!” she exclaimed. “This child has a 
mark just where mine had one ! But this is a strange mark — a 
blue-black heart !” 

Here the 7iiystery of Sir Rupert Barth trembled on the verge 
of discovery. But the crucial instant passed, and the mother 
and child knew not each other. 

To Myra, as well as to Lady Barth, Lady Bidebank carried her 
adopted child. 

Rupert was much more awed by his sister than by his mother. 

Myra, since the loss of Jasper, had put on the deepest mourn- 
ing. Her loss and the terrible and continuous arraignment of 
herself as the destroyer of Elizabeth’s child gave her a gravity and 
sorrow even beyond the sorrow of Lady Barth. 

With Lady Barth little Rupert would be affectionate and play- 
ful. He would sit silent in Myra’s room, his face full of solemn 
questioning. 

“ Elizabeth’s child would have been just about this one’s age,” 
said Myra, taking Sir Rupert on her knee, “Oh, Lady Bidebank, 


70 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


how I wish, vainly wish, that that child were here ! It is not 
alone the compassion I feel for Elizabeth, but now Jasper is 
dead, and I shall never in this world have any one that can 
stand very near to me, and I think that in that child I might 
have had an interest in the present and a hope for the future. 
How good it would have been to see a real Barth growing up into 
his inheritance ! I do not take to those Wrigleys. I fear I barely 
tolerate them.” 

“ They will make up for any lack of devotion on your part,” 
laughed Lady Bidebank. “ Do you know that last evening 
another daughter was born in the family, and it is to be named 
for you, and you are to be asked to be godmother? I see Doctor 
Wrigley coming up the drive now.” 

As Doctor Wrigley explained it, the new daughter, the name 
and the church relationship were all matters especially provided 
by himself and Mrs. W. as gratifications for Myra. 

“Dear cousin, we know you are lonely. We see that you will 
have no household of your own. We feel how judicious and 
liberal would be your training. We shall consider this child 
yours. Whenever you desire, it shall come here and live with 
you. Meantime, as soon as it begins to go out, it shall be 
brought to see you every day.” 

What could be more benevolent than such a proposition ? 

But as Doctor Wrigley spoke, Myra felt that uncontrollable 
desire to fly from his presence. Her heart rose up in arms 
against this man. 

“And there is another matter, Cousin Myra, you know: 
Failing a son to Sir Giles, the title comes to me. The title 
goes to heirs male, although the estate,” he groaned, “is not 
thus entailed. Certainly the lost child will never be found to 
claim the title. I am about to petition that it be passed over 
to me.” 

Myra bowed. The title was of no consequence to her. It 
might go easily to a better man than this. 

“ And then, Cousin Myra, if I do get the title — as I shall— there 
is another thing; the seat in Parliament is vacant, and I shall 
appear as a candidate for it at this next election. I want all 
the Barth interest.” 

“Two women alone in the world, as Lady Barth and myself, 
cannot pretend to political influence.” 


A MODERN MEDEA. 


7 1 


“ Lady Barth has no influence !” cried Doctor Wrigley, 
impatiently. “ She does not belong to the family. But you, 
my cousin, if you call upon some of the principal electors and 
voters with me — if you give me your name, and wear my colors — 
and— lend me your coach and men in livery — and — if you will 
help me bear the expenses of the election, I shall certainly gain 
my seat !” 

“But, Doctor Wrigley,” remonstrated Myra, “should you 
desire this seat, your private fortune will not maintain it. Your 
practice, I understand, you have already given up — ” 

“ Surely I have,” cried the doctor. “Sir James Wrigley, of 
Barth, cannot stoop to medical practice. A medical baronet 
might; but you know, Myra, our family title had peculiar honors 
attached to it by our good and glorious king, George the Third, 
inasmuch as it was conferred for very unusual favors. Else I 
«could not inherit.” 

“ Eut still I do not see upon what you are to live.” 

“ That ought not to be dubious to you?' returned he, reproach- 
fully. “ Such revenues as you have cannot be used by one 
young lady, and why not share them with the head and repre- 
sentative of your family?” 

“ Because, if my brother ever is found, I must account to him.” 

“ Well, suppose you were sure the child were dead, what would 
you do?” asked Doctor Wrigley. 


72 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

HE FINDS A THIRD MOTHER. 

The terrible hue and cry raised over all England about Mrs. 
Baby-Farmer’s iniquities had not escaped the Wrigley ears ; nor 
had the doctor failed to recognize the benevolent woman to 
whom he had intrusted Sir Rupert Barth. 

Wrigley also recognized in the description of the miserable 
victims the especial description of Sir Rupert, and he gnashed 
his teeth at the thought that the youngster had held out so much 
more valiantly against disasters than he supposed he could have 
done. The bulletins concerning the rescued children finally 
ceased with the statement that one more child had died at the 
almshouse, one at nurse, and the others had been provided for. 

The baby-farmer was sentenced to imprisonment at hard labor 
for life ; her husband to fifteen years of the same. 

Doctor Wrigley began to consider that so long as the death of 
Sir Rupert Barth was uncertain, Myra would have a fair excuse 
for not conferring large favors on the Wrigleys. If the last child 
who had died proved to be Rupert, the body must be sent to 
Barth House, and certified to, with some chain of evidence, as the 
body of the missing heir. If Rupert yet lived, he must be got 
possession of and — “put out of the way,” circumlocuted the 
doctor — meaning “ killed.” 

Tony Pettigrew must be made useful in this affair. Tony 
would have cursed his day had he known of this plot in his be- 
half ; but fortune saved him for the present time, for when Doctor 
Wrigley went to the old woman who had first sheltered the baby- 
farmer’s prey, he was told that the dark-eyed, curly-haired boy 
with the queer mark had been adopted by some “ quality lady.” 

While Doctor Wrigley kept Tony. Pettigrew making inquiries 
here and there to discover Sir Rupert, he found him himself, in 
the very last place where he wished to find him— in the arms of 
his mother ! 

Among Mr. Wrigley’s numerous progeny was a mild little maid 
named Elizabeth, whom her father chose to consider Mrs. Barth’s 


HE FINDS A THIRD MOTHER. 


73 


namesake and whom he frequently took to visit that lady, hoping 
to have her inherit what little property Lady Barth claimed. 
Taking Elizabeth, therefore, for a morning call on her ladyship, 
Mr. Wrigley found Lady Bidebank with her friend, a nursemaid 
sitting in a corner, and on Lady Barth’s couch a rollicking boy- 
baby, crowing as he pulled the rings on the invalid’s shrunken 
fingers. 

11 1 have adopted a child at last, doctor,” said Lady Bidebank. 
“You know we met once on the same errand.” 

Doctor Wrigley flushed a little, recalling his escape. Then he 
paled. He recognized the child clasped by Lady Barth’s arm. 
The call was a constrained one. 

“ Doctor Wrigley,” said Lady Barth, desperate for something 
to say to a guest whom she detested, “see if you can explain 
this odd mark on this child. See !” and she pulled down the 
little stocking. “Is that heart natural? Is it tattooed, or how 
did it come there ?” 

The doctor looked. Sweat burst out on his forehead. 

“ Oh ! Ah ! Why, that must be a natural mark — a real, little 
ace of hearts , isn’t he ?” And the villain tried to laugh at the 
conceit. 

Lady Barth hastily drew up the stocking, leaned back on the 
pillow and set herself to thinking. She only roused herself to 
bow, as Doctor Wrigley, much discomposed, departed. 

“My friend,” said Lady Barth to her remaining guest, “you 
say your satisfaction in that child is lessened by the thought 
that he may have vicious blood in him and that that blood will 
one day show itself. That speech of Doctor Wrigley’s — the ace 
of hearts — recalls to me a clue, by which I think you can discover 
this boy’s parentage.” 

“I will follow it up with all my heart,” cried Lady Bidebank, 
“for, knowing his ancestry, I may the better know how to train 
him.” 

“Over a year ago,” said Lady Barth, “one of our workmen 
used to bring his wife and child for an airing in our grounds. The 
wife had a babe on which she doted, and she showed me this very 
mark on him, and said his father called him The Ace of He arts A 

“And what was the name, and how came their child, if she 
loved it, at that baby-farmer’s ?” 

“ Mis§ Barth can perhaps tell you the name. I never heard 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


71 

it. The mother, I think, may be dead. She looked very 
feeble.” 

“Be sure I shall search the whole thing out,” said Lady Bide- 
bank. 

It was not difficult to ascertain from the steward of the family 
the name of the workman in question — Sam Porter. His home 
had been on the farther side of the Reservofr grounds, and he had 
been dismissed, as Doctor Wrigley gave him a very bad name. 

Lady Bidebank next went to the place where Sam had formerly 
lived. The neighbors, glad to gossip to a lady of high degree, 
poured forth information. The Porters had been very decent 
bodies — too much set up above their neighbors and not social, but 
honest, nice folk, and so unlucky ! The poor man had been carried 
off ; the wife, a weakly creature, had died of a broken heart ; the 
grandmother, a tidy body, had been sent, very ill, to Paddington 
Hospital, and rumor said was now a paid nurse in the Paddington 
Almshouse. 

“ But was there not a child ?” 

“ Oh, sure enough, there was a child ; and never was any 
gentleman so kind as Doctor Wrigley, whose servant Porter had 
once been. The doctor had taken the child to do for it. Not 
exactly that he had adopted it or had taken it into his own 
home. But he said he would provide for it ; and every one knew 
what a gentleman meant by that. Of course, the child was well 
looked after — better than its parents could do for it.” 

“And when did all this happen ?” 

“ A year, February bye past.” 

“ Ah !” said Lady Bidebank, coldly. “ f February !’ ” 

She next went to Paddington Almshouse, and asked for Dame 
Chitton. The old woman came, and told much the same story 
as her neighbors. 

“ My Jane,” she said a little boastfully, “ was not like ordinar’ 
girls. She was high-strung and delicate, like a lady ; and an 
honester, kinder, better man than Sam, with not a bad habit to 
bless hisself with, your ladyship could not find, if I do say it.” 

“ And the child ?” 

“ Well, Jane set wonderful store to that child,” said Dame 
Chitton, reluctantly. “ Doctor Wrigley took him.” 

Her ladyship ordered Sir Rupert to be brought by his nurse 
from the carriage. 


HE FINDS A THIRD MOTHER. 


75 


“ Is this the child ?” she asked. 

Dame Chitton scrutinized the boy, looked at his famous mark 
and kissed him fondly. 

“ Aye, I ’d know him anywhere ! But I did not dream he ’d 
come to such honor as belonging to you, my lady. It ’s the very 
child ! Doctor Wrigley is a good man ; he has been better than 
his word l” 

As the old woman sat fondling the child, yet with a certain 
respect begotten of his new protector and his grand clothing, 
Lady Bidebank could not bring herself to tell the good creature 
what agonies the child had suffered, and how narrow had been its 
escape from death. 

“ Why should Doctor Wrigley be interested in this child?” 

“Just pure goodness,” said Dame Chitton, fervently. 

“ And now, dame, tell me : Shall you ever desire to claim 
this child or assert your relationship ?” 

“No — no!” cried Dame Chitton, shrinking. 

“ But the father — he will, if he returns ?” 

“No — no. Sam will never trouble you for him.” 

“ But, why not ? Why, if you both love him, will you re- 
linquish him so entirely ?” 

“Well, his mother ’s gone,” said the dame, hesitatingly; and 
then she burst forth: “No, no, poor, dear child, he isn’t to 
blame ; but a curse came on us from the first minute the babe 
came. After that it was all loss and sorrow and sickness, as if 
we had sore vexed the Lord and he pursued us !” 

“ That is a wrong way to think of the Lord, dame.” 

“Well, my lady, you know better nor me; but yet you does not 
know the whole tale. I don’t know what would follow, or whether 
it is my duty to tell you all the story or no.” 

Now Lady Bidebank was the most incurious of women, and she 
had no especial craving to be treated to this family’s history or 
superstitions. 

“You see,” said the dame, as her ladyship was silent, “it’s 
belike more Sam’s business than mine.” 

“ We should not talk about other people’s business,” said Lady 
Bidebank, rising. “ I shall take steps to have this child legally 
transferred to me, as you, its only relation near it, are quite 
content.” 

“ I ’m more nor content — and so will Sam be if ever he gets 


76 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


back from the wicked seas — which I much misdoubt,” said Dame 
Chitton, handing the baby back to his nurse. 

Lady Bideback had now traced the birth of her adopted child 
to these decent poor people. This was far more satisfactory 
than if the clew had led her to rich disgraced people. 

She found that from its relatives it passed to Doctor Wrigley, 
and was shortly after in the hands of the baby-farmer. She re- 
called the meeting with Doctor Wrigley at No. 6 Napier Street, 
Hoxton. 

She felt assured that Wrigley had advertised. Then, he had 
advertised desiring to be answered by a baby-farmer ! For had 
he merely wished to secure a home for the little one, that home 
could have been found with her. 

And then he had offered a premium. 

Why should Doctor Wrigley feel so anxious to get this child 
out of the way? Why offer twenty pounds, when he was always 
short of funds, to have it put out of the way ? 

Lady Bidebank concluded that Dame Chitton was deceiving 
her, and that this was not really Sam Porter’s child. It was a 
child which Doctor Wrigley desired to get out of his way. Had 
some one hired him, at a heavy price, to do this nefarious busi- 
ness, and was the dame his accomplice? If this were so, Lady 
Bidebank would prefer not to adopt him. Still, she had become 
fond of the child; and what disposition could she make of him? 
She laid the whole case before Myra. 

“ Depend upon it, your cousin Wrigley put that child with the 
baby-farmer, knowing what she was.” 

“I doubt if he knew her character — and I am sure that the 
child is not his,” said Myra; “but deeper into the mystery I 
cannot divine.” 

It is so strange that Myra did not understand Wrigley’s intense 
interest in getting little Sir Barth out of the way, and suspect that 
here was the lost child. But until the day of revealing the 
fates seal our eyes ! 

And then Myra felt that she so stood between her senior cousin 
and these great estates that she never comprehended how his 
desires entwined about them. No thought of connecting the babe 
—which they somehow were assured had been born of Jane Por- 
ter— with the lost heir, ever occurred to them. 

Lady Bidebank formally adopted the infant Rupert. She one 




he finds a third mother. 77 

day took occasion to tell Doctor Wrigley of this, looking him full 
in the face. 

The doctor never winced. He had watched matters, and 
expected this communication. 

“ If it will add to your ladyship’s happiness, let me congratu- 
late you. It is only a pity that the title and estates of Bidebank 
cannot fall to him.” 

“No, he will needs be content with my private fortune,” 
replied her ladyship. 

The promptness and apparent frankness with which Wrigley 
met Lady Bidebank’s announcement puzzled her. 

“ You were right, I think,” she said to Myra, “ that the doctor 
is not a stranger to that child, and I am sure he had some 
reason for desiring to be rid ot it, and he was the one who gave 
it to the baby-farmer.” 

Little Sir Rupert was now in too strong protection for his 
enemy to be able to carry him off. Doctor Wrigley saw all his 
schemes — both of title and income — held in abeyance until the 
child’s death were proved. 

The doctor was considering how Tony Pettigrew might help 
him in this emergency, when Tony made it easy by coming to 
him for assistance. 

“ Doctor, I ’ve gone and done a fool thing.” 

“ And what is that, Tony?” 

“ Why, I ’ve got married !” 

“ Then I want nothing more to do with you ! I ’ll have no 
man meddling with little private undertakings of mine, who has 
a wife to gabble to or to coax him out of my secrets.” 

“This isn’t that kind of a wife,” growled Tony. “ I was a 
little elevated in my mind, doctor, by reason of a few drops of 
flip, and my ideas had been onreasonably hankerin’ after some 
one to help me do my w^k up there at the cem’t’ry. Any wom- 
an of sense can open gates and rake up grass and take orders, 
and before I knew it, the knot was tied, and I ’m that sick of it. 
Why,” cried Tony, in a burst of fervor, “ I ’d rather leave the 
work to go undone, nor rely on her to do it. We don’t agree at 
all, and she gets the best in every disagreement !” 

“ In that case, get rid of her, Tony.” 

“ She says she ’ll go for three and six a week. If I give her 
that reg’lar, she vows she ’ll not hang round me. But, doctor, 


78 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


I ’m not up to three and six steady. My little wage from the 
cem’t’ry is gone at the Pot and Kittle for flip and other little nec- 
essaries, before it ’s earned !” 

“ I ’ll pay her the three and six weekly for three months, 
Tony, if — ” 

“ Don’t, doctor, don’t go a word furder. Stop there ! Don’t 
add the if. Your ifs, doctor, they’re a whole mail-coach ! ‘ I ’ll 

pay her the three and six for three months,’ say you. ‘ Thank you,’ 
says I. Let it stop there, sir. If you was writin’ of a penny 
dreadful, you couldn’t find a neater spot to end up a chapter — no 
more you couldn’t.” 

“Why, you long-tongued cur, do you think I’m going to 
pension off this woman for you as an act of mere charity? If\ say 
if, if! Tony, if you will write a letter.” 

“ Land alive, master, I ’m no fist at writing — ” 

“A letter to Lady Barth — ” 

“ Saint George and the dragon, doctor, I ’d be jugged for my 
impedence — ” 

“And tell her,” proceeded the doctor, remorselessly, “that 
you stole her child because of spite at Sir Giles, who had im- 
prisoned you for poaching; that you are very sorry for the deed 
and would have returned the child, only you were afraid ; and it 
was well treated, but has died of measles — ” 

“ Doctor,” howled Tony, “ I never can ! What ’s your game ? 
If you want me out o’ the country, jist say so. I ’ll go, be a 
wagabone on the face of the earth — my sweetheart’s just nigh 
drove me to that, as ’t is ; but, doctor, askin’ me to blame myself 
of kidnapin’ an’ all that, an’ lettin’ a child die o’ measles, it ’s 
too much !” 

“Nonsense, Tony ! Lady Barth is so restless about that child 
that just to feel satisfied that it is in heaven would greatly settle 
her mind, and — ” ^ 

“But — I couldn’t go so far as to say it was in heaven,” re- 
monstrated Tony. 

“Tut! The rector will tell her that when you tell her it is 
dead — ” 

“ But juries, doctor, juries — they are dreadful down on givin’ 
babies free tickets to heaven — ” 

“ See here, Tony, all you are to do is to get a dirty, old sheet 
of paper ; write on it that story, in your own way. It ’s a bad 


HE FINDS A THIRD MOTHER. 


79 


way, and all the better for that. Then slip the letter, at night, 
under the front door of Barth House. You are not to sign your 
name or mail the letter. No one can trace it to you by any 
means. Lady Barth will feel her mind more at rest ; and I will 
pay off that woman for three months.” 

“ But what be three months, sur? Then she’ll be back.” 

“Not at all. By that time she ’ll run off with some other man. 
Why, man, it ’s a trifle — no danger in it — a mere act of charity. 
There, go hunt you a shabby sheet of paper, and get your letter 
ready, and bring it after dark for me to see.” 

“Here’s wot it is to be a poor cove!” mourned Mr. Petti- 
grew. “ Now I know I ’m on my way to a summary conviction.” 

The butler of Barth House found next morning a square, 
clumsily folded, dirty letter lying under the front-door. Con- 
cluding that it was some begging epistle, he committed it to a 
servant. 

In ten minutes this wretched document had thrown all Barth 
House in disorder with this news : 

“ My Ladye : It do cut me to mi art to say as I wus the won as took off 
your habby. it was all along of Sir giles as sent i to prizon— as no gen- 
tleman oughter do for the mattor ov a hair. Wots hairs fur but to kill my 
laddy i are so sorry I tuk the babby an treated im like a king as he wanted 
fur nothin only to av the measles as He tuk em from mi cousins babby an 
died in a week an i am sorry I ever tuk he. So mi laddy dont morn no more 
He is dead an no chil could die a pleasantur death of measles an berried 
nice too an forgive an i will do better nex tym.” 

And now was the mystery solved ? 

Myra Barth, for the moment, felt the burden fall from her 
weary heart. Was she all guiltless of this child’s loss? Oh, 
good news ! Oh, joy ! 




8o 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE ERRORS OF TONY PETTIGREW. 


The epistolary effort of Mr. Pettigrew had the worst possible 
effect on Lady Barth. The intense excitement occasioned by the 
letter reacted in complete prostration. 

If she had cherished any hope of finding her child, that hope 
now fled. Her mind hung over the idea of her child dragging 
out the months of its babv-life among paupers and poachers. 
Blows, hunger, cold, neglect — these she pictured as her idol's 
portion; and by a strange mockery of fate, as the jubilant laughter 
of her own unrecognized child echoed in her ears, she was torn 
with anguish at fancies of his suffering, death and burial. 

To give even Satan his due, it must be admitted that this 
result of his letter was startling and unexpected to Doctor 
Wrigley. 

His unemotional heart had really supposed that Lady Barth 
would feel at rest about her son when she heard that he was 
dead. 

When Doctor Brice announced that Lady Barth had but a few 
days to live, Doctor Wrigley had some very uncomfortable mo- 
ments over his last move in his desperate game. 

A family and legal council had been held over the letter of Tony 
Pettigrew. Doctor Wrigley, as one of the family, saw the letter, 
and he had no hesitation in accepting it as a genuine document, 
and only wondered that they had not more thoroughly searched 
for the child among the enemies of the late Sir Giles. 

Mr. Mellodew and certain experts and eminent counsel believed 
that the letter was not written by any one who had taken the 
child or knew anything about it. There was an untrue ring about 
the epistle. Why should the child-thief risk detection by writing 
this ? If the child were dead, he would have let the matter 


drop. 

Doctor Wrigley, to his horror, found this view gaining ground, 
and discovered that his letter was likely not to further his own 
plans— not to convince any one that the lost Sir Rupert was 


THE ERRORS OF TONY PETTIGREW. 


8l 


really dead, but merely to rebound upon his secret soul, in the 
knowledge that by it he had hastened the death of the unoffend- 
ing Lady Barth. 

The letter of Tony Pettigrew had affected Myra almost as 
intensely as Elizabeth. She reviewed all the incidents that sur- 
rounded the child’s disappearance. She lived and relived her 
dream. of that terrible night. 

Could it be that she was all along self-deceived, and that she 
had had nothing to do with the boy’s loss? 

This absorption in one idea produced its legitimate result — from 
pondering her dream all day Myra re-enacted it at night. She 
rose in her sleep, dressed herself as before, and went out ; but 
the central room of Barth House, the ill-fated nursery, was 
locked, and Myra’s dream was so altered that she merely paced 
out of her own dwelling, having tried the door of the nursery, 
walked then to the reservoir, stood an instant by its brink, de- 
scended the slope, and retraced her steps to her own room, or 
rather to the hall leading to it. 

But while this was all Myra’s part in this return of the dream, 
other elements and people that night, entered into it. 

Unknown to Myra, Ailsa had registered a solemn vow that her 
young mistress should no longer sleep unprotected and at the 
mercy of her wandering fancy. 

Ailsa had removed her cot each night to a recess in the hall 
near Myra’s door, and had fastened to the door a fine cord that, 
moving with its opening, would strike an alarm under her own 
pillow. Thus, as soon as sleeping Myra, wrapped in a cloak, 
opened the door of the chamber, Ailsa aroused and, wrapping a 
cloak about herself, followed her mistress. She saw Myra touch 
the door of the silent nursery ; she traced her steps out into the 
night. Why not, then, awaken her ? 

Ailsa, like many others, had a rooted superstition that if a 
sleep-walker were aroused, the instant result would be death. 
They must, she said, wake up of themselves or die. She also 
trusted that Myra, returning unconscious of her expedition, would 
continue in ignorance of it. And another of Ailsa’s ideas was 
that somnambulism, known to its victim, was more likely to 
return. 

Ailsa, therefore, followed her young lady —not from curiosity, 
but from faithfulness; and fearing that, if Myra woke, the sight 


82 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


of a second party would alarm her, Ailsa sheltered herself from 
discovery by keeping on the other side of a hawthorn hedge 
which ran along the path. 

Myra, walking in her sleep, wrapped in a black cloak, looked 
taller than ever; and, certainly, as she pursued her destined 
path, with silent footfalls, her head held high, looking straight 
on — seeing nothing — never regarding the road by which she 
came, but moving as in full day, she was an eerie and alarming 
spectacle for a stranger to encounter. 

As has been said before, a road leading direct from Clematis 
Villa, the retreat of James Wrigley, crossed this path from Barth 
House to the Willesden Reservoir. 

Just at this juncture, as Myra was returning on her uncon- 
scious way, Dr. James Wrigley and his subaltern, Tony Pettigrew, 
drew near this crossing in deep conference. 

Wrigley and Tony were probably the “hand joined in hand ” 
mentioned in the Bible in connection with iniquity. In one way 
or another the doctor and Pettigrew needed many private 
meetings, and had come up this rural walk, feeling themselves 
quite safe in the night, lit only by a crescent moon low down 
in the sky. Ailsa Wallace was safe out of sight, and whatever 
light there was, fell upon the crossing of the roads, when Tony — 
for Wrigley was creeping in the hedge shadow and looking down 
— saw that tall, dark, steadily-moving being, and, like his cousin, 
Timmy Titlow, mistook it for a ghost. 

He slunk back by his chief, his teeth chattering. 

“Hush, sir! For mercy’s sake, don’t ask me more! I 
daren’t. Whist, sir ! I ’ve seen it again !” 

“ Seen what again?” 

“The ghost, sir. The ghost I see before.” 

“ Humbug ! You saw nothing.” 

“Oh, but I did, sir.” And Tony, peering up the road, saw 
the object of his terror moving on and on. “You can look for 
yourself, sir. It ’s no mortal thing as goes like that. And here — 
this very spot — it swung past me like a judgment angel, before !” 

Doctor Wrigley, alarmed lest his conference with Tony had had 
a witness, ran into the moonlight to look. Conviction flashed on 
him. The gait, the poise of the head, the slope of the shoulders 
were like his cousin Myra. He must be assured. He whispered 
to Tony ; 


THE ERRORS OF TONY PETTIGREW, 


83 


“Drop there and wait.” 

He followed the steadily moving figure; he realized that this 
was Myra and that she was asleep. Then he peeped over the 
hedge, led by some little sound, and there he saw Ailsa Wallace, 
running clumsily and bent over. 

He returned to his waiting henchman. 

“ Tony, when did you see that — that before ?” 

“ Nev — ” began the liar. 

But Wrigley choked the word in his throat. 

“You said you saw it. Now when?” 

“Well, then — but you do beat all for catching a man in his 
speech, sir — I saw it the night you sent me to Barth House to get 
the child.” 

“ Saw it going or coming ?” 

“ Both , sir!” 

“ Speak the truth, or I ’ll strangle the life out of you !” 

“ Why, sir, as intent on serving you, in a wicked sin, sir — you ’ll 
allow that, doctor — why, as I came just here, crossing the road as 
I drew nigh, went it. Well, I took no notice, but shrank into 
the shade, and on I went. Well, as I came back, just as I drew 
near, in the very same place, it came along the self-same way as 
if returning. As I came, it went that a-way toward the Basin; as 
I returned, it came up, set toward Barth House, by that road 
like.” 

“ But you told me you saw no one that night !” 

“No more I did. This isn’t some one, or any one, this is 
sperrit. When I see it stalking by to-night, sir, the very marrer 
froze in my bones. You and me ought to quit company, sir, for 
there’s my warning.” 

“And you can swear it is the same?” 

“Aye, can I. The hair rises upon my ’e’d ; the cold chills 
run along like lizards creepin’ down my spine-bone, and the 
marrer in my bones turns as cold as water from the drippin’ 
well.” 

“Tush ! And this — whatever it is — went and came just as you 
say ?” 

“ To my sorrow,” moaned Tony — “ to my sorrow !” 

“Well — go home, Tony. We ’ll talk no more to-night. I see 
I can make nothing out oi you." 

But, unexpectedly, Doctor Wrigley had made this out of Tony 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


84 

Pettigrew that night, that he had found out that his cousin Myra 
had, on the very night Rupert was taken, drenched, to Sam 
Porter’s door, gone to and from the reservoir. She , then, had 
thrown her half-brother into the water. “ The knowledge may 
do me good some day, my lady,” said Doctor Wrigley to himself, 
with a pleasant smile. But as he went home with this morsel 
of comfort, Myra also reached home, and closely followed by 
Ailsa,.who was trembling with anxiety to see the girl return safely 
to her room. The young girl had almost reached her resting- 
place, when astray kitten, which had not been locked out, sprang 
up under the sleeper’s feet, with a dreadful yowling at having its 
tail trodden on. 

The noise awoke Myra. 

She looked about. The dimly-burning hall-lamp, the open 
door of her chamber, her own singular dress, Ailsa shawled, 
disheveled, alarmed, gazing apprehensively — all revealed to her 
her walk in the night and overwhelmed her. 

She gave a wild shriek, and fell into her old attendant’s arms. 

An hour before, Ailsa would not have believed herself strong 
enough to carry Myra from the hall to her bed ; but now she did 
it, and then hastily locked the door. 

Well it was that she did so, for presently the butler and a foot- 
man came hurrying along to ask the cause of the cry. 

Ailsa put her head from Miss Barth’s door. 

“ It’s just Miss Myra been dreaming, and wild wi’ a headache, 
worrited wi’ all our troublements,” explained Ailsa. 

“Oh, Ailsa! Ailsa, tell me!” cried poor Myra. “Have I 
been sleep-walking?” 

Ailsa would have stoutly denied it, but there were the soiled 
shoes, the dew-damp dress, the long cloak lying before the young 
lady’s very eyes. 

“Weel, me lambie, I’ll no say ye ha’e not,” she replied. 

“Ailsa, I dreamed I went to the reservoir. Tell me — have I 
been there ?” 

“I canna say ye ha’e been onywhaur else, me jewel. But 
hanna ye a right to walk there, an ye wull ?” 

“ Ailsa, Ailsa,” cried Myra, springing up and flinging her 
arms about her head, “ have I ever been there at night before?” 

“ Hoo can I tell, lambie? But no, I ha’e never seen ye go 
abroad before by night.” 


THE ERRORS OF TONY PETTIGREW. 


85 


“ Nor come in ?” 

“ Na, na; I hanna seen ye. Ye can no’ ha’e gane !” 

Myra fiercely caught her poor nurse by the shoulders. She 
shook her in her painful excitement. 

“ Ailsa, tell me — tell me the truth ! Fix your mind on the day 
when Elizabeth’s child was lost. Did you think that that night 
I had walked in my sleep? Tell me ! Did you see any signs of 
it — any shoes, any clothes?” 

“ Oh, why, my lovely, do ye tak tent for what is sae lang gane 
by? Ah, wae’sme!” 

“Tell me, tell me, Ailsa! Answer me, as you hope to be 
saved !” 

Thus adjured, Ailsa tremblingly replied : “ Wae ’s me, me 

guil ! I did see clay on yer shoon and the dews o’ night on yer 
claes an’ damp dust o’ the ways on yer frillis. But never heed. 
Ailsa fand the cloak an’ the goun, an’ Ailsa pit them away, an’ 
nane but Ailsa saw a sign.” 

Myra began to groan bitterly. 

“ Ah, Ailsa, on that night I had a dreadful dream.” 

“ Dinna tell it, me bairn,” said the cautious nurse. “ Dreams 
are things o’ air, for which nane is responsible. An’ ye dream o’ 
evil, it is the whisper o’ the adversary, who stan’s outside o’ yer 
ain soul ; an’ ye even do evil in sleeping — as if ye s’uld rise an’ 
fire the hoose or tak’ yer friend’s purse or watch — it is na a sin, 
it is a misfortune.” 

“ Ah, Ailsa, I ’m afraid we ^re more responsible for dreams 
than that. We must let evil get a firm foothold while we are 
awake, or we could not act it in our sleep. My heart breaks over 
that dream — oh, me ! and now I know that letter was a forgery, 
and no enemy of my father stole Elizabeth’s child !” 

From the late and troubled sleep into which she fell, after 
this midnight adventure, Myra was roused by Lady Barth’s maid. 

Her mistress was very ill and had asked for Miss Barth. 

With sorrow and trembling, the unfortunate girl obeyed the 
summons. At the hour of death, would Elizabeth renew her 
terrible charges ? 

But Elizabeth’s face was clear ; peace had succeeded to queru- 
lousness, and the light of eternity was shining in the long shad- 
owed eyes. She held out her hand to Miss Barth, 

<c Dear Myra, we once were friends !” 


86 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


Myra knelt beside her. 

“Once,” said Elizabeth, “ you were the only being on earth 
that I loved. Do not blame me for marrying your father ; I was 
so lonely, Myra. You had found a dearer friend, and I really 
loved Sir Giles, Myra.” 

“Yes,” sobbed Myra, “poor, dear Elizabeth, I was cruel to 
complain — to interfere with your right or his.” 

“ And, Myra, I know it was hard for you about my little boy; 
but you did not hate him. I blamed you for his loss, but that 
was wild ; and if he is not dead and is ever found, you will be a 
mother to him, won’t you, Myra ?” 

“ I will — I swear to you, Elizabeth.” 

At that moment Lady Bidebank, who had been sent for, 
entered, followed by a nurse carrying the little Sir Rupert, now 
three years old and rosy and ecstatic from his early morning walk. 

“We are friends once more,” sighed Elizabeth, looking at 
Myra, who sat near her pillow. 

All day she held Myra close and would not let her go; and at 
sunset she quietly passed away, holding to her bosom the child 
for whose loss her heart was breaking. 

Thus two mothers had held this child in their dying arms. 

But possibly some clearer vision came to the parting spirit ; for 
just as she drifted out of time, Elizabeth Barth said, with a clear 
voice : 

“ I know my boy is living !■” 

“Then,” Myra cried in answer, “he shall inherit all that 
was his father’s !” 

When Lady Barth’s will came to be read, Doctor Wrigley met 
with a disappointment. Despite his diligent calls with the child 
whom he asserted as her namesake, Lady Barth left her ten 
thousand pounds — not to Elizabeth Wrigley, but to Rupert, 
adopted son of Lady Bidebank. 

It struck Doctor Wrigley like a warning from the ghostly finger 
of Fate that the property of the mother thus unerringly descended 
to her child. 

Lady Bidebank thought it rather a pity that the money had 
not gone to little unportioned Bessie Wrigley. But the will 
must stand as it was. 

No sooner was Lady Barth dead ? than the doctor began pressing 
his claims upon Myra, 


THE ERRORS OF TONY PETTIGREW. 87 

“ I think now, cousin, as my oldest seems likely to be the heir, 
that you should bring him up here on the estate, among the fam- 
ily servants and tenants. Let him take his legitimate place.” 

“ But, suppose hp should not be the heir ? What could be 
worse than for him to be brought up with large expectations?” 

“Even if you marry, you may not have children !” the doctor 
cried, sharply. 

“ I did not refer to my own children. I shall not marry. But 
Elizabeth, with her last word, said that her child was living; 
and I vowed in my soul to find him.” 

/ “ That is mere enthusiasm — the child is dead. Look at that 
letter !” 

“ I believe it to be a trick or a forgery.” 

“ And for a miserable whim of a foolish woman,” shouted 
Doctor Wrigley, “ my child is to be brought up unequally to his 
position — unfit for his fortune !” 

“ If my brother is found, legally I am responsible for the 
income during his disappearance ; I cannot lavish it as I will,” 
said Myra. “But out of my private income, Doctor Wrigley, 
I will educate your son, and send him, as soon as he is old 
enough, to Eton.” 

Doctor Wrigley esteemed this concession as the entering wedge 
t whereby he should split off what he deemed his share of the 
Barth income. He replied : 

“ And you will have him here for his vacations, and for a 
day each week until he goes ? I spoke too hastily, my cousin ; 
but you must make allowances for a father’s feelings.” 

“ I am glad to see your children whenever they visit me; but 
it is inexpedient to single out this one from the rest,” said Myra. 

“ I can tell you a better way,” said Wrigley, confidentially, 
“ the best way. You ought not to live here alone, it is quite im- 
proper. All the east wing is empty. Let us unite our households, 
cousin. Clematis Villa is not a suitable place for your nearest 
kinsman. I should be looking after this estate, as you cannot. 
Why should not my family come and live in the east wing?” 

“ Do not ask me to change my way of living or my establish- 
ment, doctor,” said Myra, fairly shrinking with horror at the idea 
of coming to such close quarters with the Wrigleys. The chil- 
dren were uproarious, the mother fussy, commonplace, good- 
natured j Wrigley himsetf §he bated* 


88 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ Would you still say so if you were sure that child were dead?” 
cried Wrigley. 

“ Yes, I should ; but, of course, I should feel freer in the use of 
the income.” , 

“ And I would have the title; and you ought to pay the ex- 
penses of my election to Parliament, Myra; and there is your 
namesake, a year old now; what better could you do than 
adopt her?” 

“ I am unused to children, said poor Myra, driven to de- 
spair. 

Doctor Wrigley went home and told his wife that she must 
send the baby over every pleasant day to see their cousin Myra; 
that Mrs. Wrigley herself must call with the other six once a 
week, and that “ Our Eldest,” reinforced by one of his brothers, 
must each week present himself for an all-day visit at Barth 
House. 

“She must get used to us by degrees,” said the doctor. 
“ Nothing like custom.” 

“ Unless she gets sick of us before she gets used to us,” said 
Mrs. W., a little averse to thus forcing herself on her great 
relation. 

“ It will all be ours one day, Mrs. W. We can take possession 
by degrees.” 

Doctor Wrigley’s main problem now was to dispossess the mind 
of Myra and other people of the notion that Sir Rupert Barth yet 
lived. Again he called Tony Pettigrew to the rescue. 

Myra was one day sitting by herself in a grove near Barth 
House — a part of the grounds of the mansion — when a rustling 
called off her attention from her book, and she saw near her a 
man in the dress of a strolling tinker. 

Myra started to her feet, half alarmed. 

“ My lady, stop a bit,” cried the man, softly. “ I mean no 
harm. I desire a word with your ladyship. Be you Lady 
Barth?” asked Tony with elaborate ignorance. 

“ No ; I am Miss Barth. Lady Barth is dead.” 

“I’m main sorry for that,' 11 said the man, drawing his hand 
across his glittering gipsy eyes. “ I writ her a letter, miss.” 

“What, the letter found in the hall, about the child?” 

“ If you please, miss.” 

“And was that true? Is the child dead? ‘Did you take it?” 


THE ERRORS OF TONY PETTIGREW. 89 

“ It ’s fearsome hard lines for a chap to accuse nisself that a 
way, miss, but I did take that child.” 

“ Where did you get it?” 

This question being unexpected, and Tony, fearing greatly the 
results of his present undertaking, deviated from Doctor Wrigley’s 
instructions and said : 

“Why, I found it out in the field beyond the hedge. Didn’t 
know it was Sir Giles’s baby then. Just took it up out of charity 
like; and when I found out what child it was, I kept it out of 
wickedness, along of being mad at he.” 

“ And how did you know whose child it was ?” 

“By the descriptions out after it, and — by its mark like a 
apple-seed,” said Tony, now falling back on instructions 
received. 

“And the child is dead ?” 

“ Yes, miss ; from the word of a ’onest man, it are. May I be 
drownded off Lon’on Bridge if I ain’t tellin’ you the gospel truth. 
Died o’ small pox.” 

“ You wrote '‘measles /’ ” 

“ Well, ain’t they the same ? I ’m a ignorant man.” 

“ At least you can tell me where the boy is buried?” 

“No, miss; I can’t. Poor uns buries in potter’s field. We 
buried it in Tower Hamlets potter’s field. But there’s a very 
’onest man named Tony Pettigrew there as is ’sistant sexton — an’ 
he ’ll know, likely.” 

“ The assurance of this child’s death is very important. Will 
you give your facts to Doctor Brice or Lawyer Mellodew?” 

“No more I won’t run my ’e’d into a noose like that. Why, 
miss, does you think I ’ve any uncommon fancy for gettin’ con 
wicted for life, or maybe strung up, by one of those unfeelin’ 
courts, which ’as no feelin’s for poor men ?” 

“And why do you come to me, then?” 

“ To relieve my conscience, and to set your mind at rest like. 
But I ’m only a poor tinker, a strollin’ man, and wot’s more, I ’m 
goin’ for to leave my native land an’ live an’ die an exile. You ’ll 
never see me more.” 

This pathetic statement did not touch Myra. 

“ Will you stop here until I go and bring you a fee ?” 

“An’ till you likewise brings a butler an’ a gardener, and other 
’ard-’arted villyung to seize me ? No, miss; you may be s’prised 


9 o 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


to learn it, but I wasn’t born yesterday, an’ I do know a move or 
two.” 

And away skipped Tony, congratulating himself on his astute- 
ness. But in saying that he found the child in a field, and that it 
was buried in Tower Hamlets cemetery, Tony had gone beyond 
Doctor Wrigley, and beyond safety. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE SEARCH FOR SIR RUPERT. 

It was one of the curious things in the adventures of Sir 
Rupert Barth that when Tony Pettigrew relied on his inner con- 
sciousness for an answer to Myra’s question as to how he came 
into possession of the child, he hit upon a reply that coincided 
with her own experiences. 

Found him in a field. 

Then Myra concluded that she had laid him down in a field 
instead of tossing him into the reservoir. 

“But still,” she said, “ all the fault is mine. I took him out 
of his home into this man’s power.” 

Most culprits have at least the satisfaction of knowing what 
wrong they did, but the misery of this girl was that other 
people were continually throwing new light on her own conduct. 
In her morbid state of mind she would soon be ready, like the 
French infant at confession, to accuse herself of breaking every 
command in the decalogue. She had envied her brother. She 
had robbed him. She had murdered him. She had dishonored 
her father. She had destroyed Elizabeth. She had been the 
means of Jasper Fitzroy’s death. Her silence was false witness. 

Poor Myra, thus writing bitter things against herself, can we 
believe her one of the most honest girls in England — one of the 
most lovable ? 

She was morbid on this point — crazy, if you choose ; but on 
other matters she was as shrewd a woman as lived. 


THE SEARCH FOR SIR RUPERT. 


91 


Look at her conduct on the day after her interview with Tony 
Pettigrew. 

She told Doctor Brice the whole story of the tinker, and re- 
quested him to go over to Tower Hamlets cemetery with her, to 
interview that veracious sexton, Tony Pettigrew. Unluckily for 
him, he had referred her to himself. 

It had not occurred to Tony that Miss Barth would come to 
look up her little brother’s grave. 

That day he happened to be at work in the burial-yard. 
Another thing is to be noticed— that Tony regularly received and 
spent Doctor Wrigley’s three-and-six, and still endured the 
propinquity of the wife of his bosom, whom the doctor supposed 
to be pensioned off. 

At Tony’s house stopped Miss Barth. 

“Tony Pettigrew, is it?” cried that gentleman’s better half, 
holding the neck of her dress together with one hand, while 
with the other she drove a hairpin into her disheveled back locks. 
“Well, yon he is; at work to-day, for a wonder. He got 
home last night. He ’s bin away, if you ’ll believe me, for three 
days, leaving me to do his work. I hope you don’t want anything 
of Tony. He ’s the laziest man in Lon’on. Why, he goes off 
for two or three days at a time ! He says he works for a sassidge- 
cutter down oh Plum Street, Lambeth ; but I never see no 
sassidge.” 

It was hard to stem the stream of Mrs. Pettigrew’s speech ; 
but Miss Barth fairly waded through it, and came unexpectedly 
on Tony, who was digging a child’s grave. 

So many children die in Tower Hamlets ! 

Divested of the clothes and wig wherein he had appeared as 
a tinker, Miss Barth did not recognize the man ; but she noticed 
that he trembled at the sound of her voice and could not 
conceal a certain dismay at the question Doctor Brice put to 
him : 

“ A tinker’s child ? A sort o’ tramping man, Jones, the name, 
and child died o’ measles ? Why, sir, Lord bless you, we can’t 
keep track of the buryin’s. No doubt there’s a dozen or maybe a 
score o’ Joneses. Name ’s none so uncommon, nor yet tinkers 
ain’t. Mebbe yon ’s the grave.” 

“Why, that looks a year old !” cried Doctor Brice. 

“Sp it do,” said Tony; “but you can’t toll exactly, ’long 0’ 


92 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


weather, an’ how they’re laid up at first. If we ’re crowded, in 
course we can’t work ’em up so careful. Do you know when this 
young one died ?” 

No, they did not. 

“ Well — bless an’ save us, sir an’ ma’am — but how can a poor, 
overworked sextant show you which is which, bein’ without 
dates, an’ name Jones? Not but what I’d like to do it. I’d 
just ’bout as soon be committed for contempt o’ court as dis- 
oblige a lady an’ gemman.” 

Now, as Tony spoke, he caught Myra’s eyes fixed upon him in 
a manner she had of reading people, and Tony choked and 
purpled. 

The fact is, Myra recognized the honest “ sextant ” as yester- 
day’s tinker, by just such a cunning twinkle in his eyes, as had 
appeared there when he suggested that she meant to bring a 
butler and a footman to detain him. 

Tony took up his tools and warily moved along to his own 
abode. 

Doctor Brice and Myra turned toward their carriage. 

“ Doctor,” said Myra, “ that is the very fellow who came tome 
yesterday. I ’m sure of it !” 

“ What ! Could you swear to him ?” 

“ I think I could. We must have him arrested.” 

But there was no officer in sight nor within some squares, and 
Doctor Brice hardly knew what was best to be done. 

“ Let us go and see Mellodew,” he suggested, “and make the 
arrest afterward.” 

Tony entered the house. He said only three words : 

“I ’ll skip.” 

It is probable that he did skip, for the* officer sent by Mr. 
Mellodew entirely failed to find him. 

“One thing appears tome certain,” said Mr. Mellodew; 
“ that child is not dead. Some one desires you to believe him 
dead ; but this whole account of his decease is a fiction. He is 
hidden somewhere.” 

“ And why ? Who would carry him off?” 

“ That is the one root question. If that were answered we could 
find the child. Some one may rear him to get an influence over 
him, and so share his property when he is of an age to claim it ; 
or some low person, keeping him as a relative, will finally marry 


THE SEARCH FOR SIR RUEERT. 


93 


him to one of their family, and when he is of age will enjoy his 
wealth with him.” 

“ Then,” said Myra, “ let us salary the shrewdest detective 
we can find, to spend his whole time searching for him.” 

They did employ a detective ; but of what avail ? He searched 
the slums, the travelling shows, the gipsy camps — and the boy for 
whom he sought frolicked every day about the grounds of Barth 
House, picked the flowers from his late father’s gardens and the 
nuts from his ancestral trees. 

He played, too, with the little Wrigleys. Barth Place fairly 
swarmed with Wrigleys. Myra could not drive them away. Mrs. 
Wrigley came often with her whole train. She beamed with a 
mother’s pride ; she fluttered with a mother’s hope and ambi- 
tion for her darlings; she came because her husband bade her 
come; and Myra could not rebuff her. She was a well-meaning 
fool, and that is so much better than a spiteful fool. 

And then, Doctor Wrigley had shown himself no mean judge 
of human nature when he had said that custom was everything. 
Myra became accustomed to the little Wrigleys. 

She hired a tutor for “ Our Eldest,” and had him take his lessons 
in the library at Barth House. Clematis Villa so overflowed with 
babies and echoed with squalls that the tutor found no secure 
retreat there for the worship of the muses. 

“ She ought to keep you there all the time,” said Doctor 
Wrigley to “ Our Eldest;” “you’ll own the whole of it some 
day, and you should grow up to it.” 

“ She says,” returned the boy, in the tone of one convinced 
of the justice of “her” remarks, “that little Sir Rupert will be 
back some day, and all will belong to him ; and that I shall 
have a university education, and then I can work up my way for 
myself — and maybe be lord-chancellor.” 

“ The child will never come back,” shouted the doctor, look- 
ing blackly at his first-born, “ and you ’ll be heritor of Barth — 
easier, that, than lord-chancellor.” 

“ I ’d like to fight my own way up,” responded the boy, in 
whom Miss Barth’s instructions had taken root. 

“ Do you notice, Miss Barth,” said Mrs. Wrigley, who never 
could “cousin” this stately damsel, “how soldierly ‘our second’ 
is? He is the very boy for the army. We hope you will buy him 
a lieutenancy some day.” 


94 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


And then every week, and almost every day in the week, Miss 
Barth’s attention was called to the scholarly and devotional 
tendencies of “ Our Third,” and she was assured that he was born 
for the church, and when his poor, dear father had succeeded in 
getting him through the university, of course his cousin Myra 
would see that he had the family living. He should always 
hold such opinions as she saw fit, and he should marry to 
please her ; they all should. Mrs. Wrigley w j as ready to 
pledge herself that these boys in knickerbockers and these 
girls in infinitesimal petticoats should all marry to please their 
cousin Myra. 

Myra was tasting the bitter as well as the sweet of being the 
rich unmarried relation of this tribe of aspirants for place and 
property. She was perfectly sick of being consulted as to the 
price of these brats’ shoes and the color of their dry-goods. 
If Cousin Myra did not like blue, they should not wear blue. If 
she thought girls should learn Latin, they must learn Latin. If 
she approved of foreign schools, their doting mother would bun- 
dle them all off to the continent next week. And so, one by one, 
“ Our Second ” and “ Our Third ” slipped into Barth library, to 
share the lessons of “ Our Eldest;” and when Myra’s feminine 
heart was so beguiled with the infantine swe^ness of number 
seven — her own namesake, who certainly was a charming child — 
that she said the child should inherit her especial fifteen thou- 
sand, that night the nurse forgot to bring the little one home to 
Clematis Villa, and after that many times she was forgotten and 
left at Barth House. 

So little Mi was almost a fixture at Myra’s, and Lady Bide- 
bank’s adopted — little Sir Rupert — played with Mi, and dragged 
her about in a cart, and shared his candy with her, and un- 
chivalrously slapped her when he was mad. 

Of all the children who swarmed about Barth House and its 
unmarried and rich mistress, this Sir Rupert was the one who 
regarded Myra with far-off reverence and adoration, as one 
might worship the golden planet under which he was born. 

The vigorous common sense of Miss Barth, her honesty and 
courage, which were of a manly type — having virtually had no 
male relatives to defend her — impressed Sir Rupert, and formed 
his moral code, more than the instructions of his adoptive mam- 
ma, who was liable to weaken the force of her lessons when she 


THE SEARCH FOR SIR RUPERT. 


95 


put the wicked, the vulgar and the ungenteel all on the same 
moral plane. 

Sir Rupert had been past three when his real mother died and 
when Tony Pettigrew “ skipped. 

Until Rupert was five, all the efforts of Myra’s well-paid agent 
had failed to discover Tony. 

There was gipsy blood in the rascal, and having personated a 
tinker suggested to him the desirability of skipping into a strolling 
life. Mr. Pettigrew joined a travelling show in even such a sub- 
ordinate position as care-taker of the show beasts. But Tony 
said grandiloquently that this was his profession, and in it he could 
rise, even possibly to the height of being head showman him- 
self. 

Two years nearly did the happy Tony wander foot and fancy 
free. 

But, unfortunately for Mr. Pettigrew, London is the maelstrom 
which eventually sucks into itself all the life of the three kingdoms. 
It is the center to which all British humanity gravitates. 

It was the destiny of Mr. Pettigrew to regard from afar the 
bewitching glow of this big candle city, flutter to it like a fool 
moth, and be scorched by that part of London formed by the 
angry glare of Mrs. Tony Pettigrew. 

Mrs. Pettigrew, with two pence to her fortune, strolling along 
Commercial Road, Limehouse, carrying a fat youngster who 
claimed paternity from Mr. Pettigrew, beheld her recreant lord 
strutting around gloriously with a young woman on his arm, a 
resplendent gold (or gilded) chain about his traitorous neck and 
a blazing diamond pin on his broad bosom. The heart of Mrs. 
Tony swelled with rage and mortification. It would have been a 
satisfaction to berate him then and there for his unfaith, to pour 
the vials of wrathful words on the villain and his young woman ; 
but Mrs. T. P. was wise. She took a surer way. 

Tony was arrested and brought before his honor, who held 
court in Limehouse, and required to inform British justice why 
he left his wife and child to rely on the public charities for sup- 
port. 

Mrs. T. P. was in court wearing her worst clothes, and afford- 
ing a pitiable contrast to the resplendent Mr. Pettigrew. 

“ Hold your baby up,” whispered the aggrieved woman’s coun- 
sel. “ Babies always make a strong impression on the court.” 


9 6 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


The baby was held up, and increased the impression by 
screaming. 

His honor looked with great severity on the defendant. 

“ What are you employed at ?” 

“ I was in a brick-yard,” said Tony, “but it burned down.” 

“ I never heard of such a thing as a brick-yard burning down,” 
remarked Mrs. T. P.’s counsel, to the court. 

“I’ve always been in bad luck,” quoth Tony, pathetically, 
“ but this is the crowning blow of all !” 

Whether he meant his wife’s suit, the baby or the burning of 
the brick-yard, none could tell. 

“ Why do you not support your wife ?” 

“I ’ve got a sore finger,” said Tony, holding a tied-up finger. 

“Oh, the idea!” cried Mrs. T. P. ; “and, your honor, ask 
him if it’s been sore nigh two years that he’s left me — seven 
months, your honor, before this blessed baby was born, and me 
to shift for myself as well as I could, with all that trouble on my 
hands !” 

“ What can you earn a week ?” demanded his honor of Tony. 

“A p’und, if I’m right lucky,” said Tony. 

Comparing this answer with the defendant’s jewelry, the by- 
standers laughed. 

“You must give your wife, then, ten shillings weekly; share 
and share alike is fair play for partners,” said the amiable court. 

“Please, your honor,” deprecated Tony, “that won’t leave me 
enough to get on with.” 

“ She looks as if she needed it more than you do.” 

“Your honor,” said Mrs. Tony, viciously, “he means it won’t 
leave him enough to buy nice bonnets for that other young 
woman as I seed him with !” 

“ I ’ll agree to live with my wife if that will make her happy,” 
said the amiable Mr. Pettigrew. 

“Will you sign a bond to take care of her and keep her off 
the public charities ?” 

“Oh, I’ll sign anything,” said Tony, cheerfully; “ my bond 
is as good as my word any day.” 

Tony and his wife were permitted to depart ; but as they left 
court Mrs. Tony could not forbear taunting her beloved, and he 
indulged in a retort uncourteous by attacking the good woman on 
the spot. 


THE SEARCH FOR SIR RUPERT. 


97 


British justice could endure Mr. Pettigrew’s giving his wife 
black eyes, but not within the sacred precincts of the law. Tony 
was fined twenty shillings; and not having the shillings to pay, 
he was thrust into prison. 

The morning papers detailed this little incident in the life of 
Mr. Pettigrew. 

Doctor Wrigley saw the account, and flew to pay Tony’s fine 
and so get him out of the way of doing harm. 

Myra Barth recognized the name of the man whom she waited, 
and, with Mr. Mellodew, went to court and charged the newly 
liberated Tony with knowing something of the long-lost Sir 
Rupert. 

Doctor Wrigley saw Myra and her lawyer and slipped into a 
corner of the court to see his Tony brought up on this accusation. 

Though Tony asserted himself to be “a ’onest man — a ’ard 
worker — a right loyal Englishman” and various other things not 
to the point, he was required to give two hundred pounds’ bail 
to return when called for, or go to prison until his ways were in- 
quired into. 

Of course it was through Doctor Wrigley that a hanger-on of 
court, who had received ten pounds for assuming to be acting on 
his own responsibility, lodged in the proper hands the required 
bail, and Tony was once more free. 

“ There is no other way, Tony,” said Doctor Wrigley, as he 
and Mr. Pettigrew met for a midnight confabulation. ‘‘You 
must jump your bail and be off, and I must lose the two hundred 
pounds. You are a great trial to me, Tony; and don’t you 
dare to come back here until I send for you.” 

“ I ’ll be bound, gov’nor, you’ll raise the cash somewhere,” re- 
sponded Tony. 

And Mr. Pettigrew was right. Doctor Wrigley, within a week, 
told his cousin Myra that he had lost money needful to the com- 
forts of his family, and Myra allowed herself to be persuaded 
out of the two hundred pounds, unconscious that she was paying 
for the escape of Mr. Pettigrew. 

But there is little more to tell of these years except that, one 
day, Mrs. Wrigley, walking in Barth woods, saw Sir Rupert play- 
ing with little Mi, her own number 'seven, and heard Rupert 
say : 

“You do as I tell you, miss. When I ’m big I mean to marry 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


9 S 

you, and then you ’ll have to do as I say. So you do as I tell 
you, and bring me sticks for my bridge.” 

“With her cousin’s fifteen thousand and married to Lady 
Bidebank’s heir, the child would do very well,” said Mrs. 
Wrigley, forming in her own mind a plan which it was unluckily 
not worth her while to mention to Doctor Wrigley. 

% 


' CHAPTER XI. 

MYRA QUARRELS WITH HER HEIR. 

Though Doctor Wrigley had made some advance in his plans 
regarding the Barth fortune, he was far from satisfied. The east 
wing of Barth House was yet shut up and desolate. Clematis 
Villa was yet his own too narrow abode — he had not received the 
title, nor yet the seat in Parliament — and now seven years had 
passed since little Sir Rupert vanished. 

The joyful growth of the adopted child of Lady Bidebank was 
a fresh aggravation to Doctor Wrigley. It had never occurred to 
the doctor, as it had to his wife, to dream a dream of uniting their 
Mi to Lady Bidebank’s son. That was Mrs. Wrigley’s especial 
plan. She did not mention it, lest his usual amiability should 
say : “ Don’t be a fool, woman !” But all the same, she thought 

of the day when the match should be made, and she should glow 
with pride and say : “ This is of my planning, and I always 

foresaw this.” 

And still little Rupert and little Mi were the best of friends; 
the girl adored the boy, and as for the boy, one while he was 
good to his playmate, and another while he was bad to her ; but 
he always said : 

“ When we are grown up we will be married, and we won’t learn 
any lessons, but we will keep house, and we will have cake and 
pie for breakfast, instead of porridge and milk, and we will dine 
on bonbons, and there shall never be any boiled mutton 1” 


MYRA QUARRELS WITH HER HEIR. 


99 


Lady Bidebank and Myra overheard all this pretty forecasting 
one day, as they walked near where the children played. 

“Asking your pardon, my dear,” said Lady Bidebank, “I 
shall not fancy any Wrigley blood in my daughter-in-law; so 
when these children get a little older they must be parted and 
sent to school.” 

At this time Myra had sent “ Our Eldest ” to Eton, and the 
tutor was still continued for “Our Second” and “ Our Third,” 
and Myra was under some implied promise to buy “ Our Second ” 
a commission, and give “ Our Third ” the family living, the first 
time it fell vacant after he 'entered orders. Myra also paid a 
governess for Mrs. Wrigley’s girls, and all the thanks she received 
for these favors was a steady stream of moaning that Clematis 
Villa was much too small and far too shabby for her nearest 
relations, and the east wing would be the very place for the 
Wrigleys. Sometimes Myra felt ready to marry, for the mere 
sake of shaking off the Wrigleys. 

But her heart was buried deep with Jasper Fitzroy, for whom 
she wore a widow’s mourning deeper than Lady Bidebank’s own, 
and remorse about her little brother still bound her to transmit 
to no children the inheritance of crime. 

“ That mortgage on the Fitzroy estate is to be foreclosed,” said 
Mr. Mellodew to Miss Barth. “The estate will be sold at auc- 
tion. There is much need of repairs and it will go cheap — as 
cheap as fifty thousand pounds, I dare say.” 

“ I have been looking forward to that,” said Myra, “ and I am 
willing to go as high as eighty thousand pounds on the purchase, 
and lay out twenty thousand more on repairs. It is good prop- 
erty. Will you go to bid on it for me ? Get it as cheap as 
you can.” 

“I certainly shall not be pushed beyond seventy thousand 
pounds.” 

“ Then I shall have thirty thousand for improvements.” 

“ What is this? What is this I hear?” cried James Wrigley, 
rushing upon Myra, a short time later, as she sat with her com- 
panion at breakfast. “My cousin, you have bought the Fitzroy 
estates?” 

“ Yes. I got the property for sixty-eight thousand pounds.” 

“ Barth and Fitzroy !” said James Wrigley, rubbing his hands 
and thinking of “Our Eldest,” and of himself, if this unreason- 


100 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


able girl would ever get out of the way. “ Barth and Fitzroy ! 
What a magnificent property ! But it is a pity you cannot absorb 
Bidebank, too ! Your living must cost you a mere song — except 
for your charities. I hear you give away a great deal. You 
should be cautious about that, my cousin. It is better to hus- 
band your income and buy real estate. Nothing like real estate. 
But, since you can lay out a hundred thousand pounds on prop- 
erty, I don’t see why you cannot give me seven or eight thousand 
for an election. I can certainly get into Parliament if I have 
money for election expenses.” 

“But the position after you are in will be costly to you. You 
would desire to change your style of living.” 

“ Well, you can set me up there at Fitzroy Towers.” 

“I could not stand the expense of keeping up such an estab- 
lishment for you. Fitzroy Towers must pay its own way. It 
must not be a drain on the estate. If Elizabeth’s boy is ever 
found, Fitzroy Towers will belong to him — it will be even better 
than stocks.” 

“ I don’t know anything like the madness of expecting that 
child to rise from the dead,” said Wrigley. 

He was in a sullen frame of mind as he crossed the private 
road running through the Bidebank and Barth properties. As 
he neared the gate of Lady Bidebank’s carriage drive, a little, 
light wagon went in, driven by Mr. Timmy Titlow, beside whom 
sat an old woman, wrapped in along blue country cloak, and with 
a brown vail over her face. 

Timmy’s companion was no other than Dame Chitton, who 
had gotten leave for a day from her duties as nurse at Paddington 
Almshouse, and had come to see Lady Bidebank and her adopted 
child. 

Timmy Titlow was one of the friends of old times who had not 
deserted Dame Chitton, but went once a month to call on her at 
the almshouse ; and she having told him that Lady Bidebank had 
taken “Jane’s child,” and that it was much on her own mind to 
go and see her ladyship and tell her a secret, Timmy benevo- 
lently invested part of his earnings in the hire of a spring-cart, 
and brought the old woman on her way. 

It was the first outing of this kind that Dame Chitton had had 
since the first year of her marriage, and she enjoyed it accord- 
ingly. The trees were in full leaf ; the flowers were in bloom ; 


MYRA QUARRELS WITH HER HEIR. IOI 

birds rioted in the ivies that draped Bidebank Hall. The dame 
was shown into a little room done up in white, pink and French 
gray, and as she waited for her ladyship an aviary was on one 
side of her, full of jubilant songsters, and on the other a con- 
servatory, where wonderful un-English flowers filled the air as 
with many-colored flames and the breath of. a thousand censers. 

Timmy Titlow was loitering on the gravel walk outside, and 
Dame Chitton so longed to compensate him for his goodness to 
her that she opened the glass door and bade him come in. He 
could slip into the conservatory among the plants, and her lady- 
ship would take no heed of him. 

Timmy not being burdened with bashfulness, was not loath to 
accept this permission, and was staring open-mouthed at the 
glories around him when Lady Bidebank came to see her unin- 
vited guest. Unfortunately, her ladyship was that morning very 
much engaged. Bidebank Hall had the Lord Chancellor and 
his lady, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the nephew and heir 
of the Duke of Radford, as guests. The hostess had little time to 
spare. 

“ Did you wish to see me, my good woman?” said Lady Bide- 
bank, briskly, not recognizing Dame Chitton. 

The dame courtesied low to the tall^figure in black silk and 
crape, standing darkly amid the birds, flowers and sunshine of the 
June day. 

“ If you please, my lady; and would you please not think me 
going from my word — nor lying to your ladyship — but Sam ’ s 
never come back, and they all tell me he ’s sure to be dead ; and 
I wanted, if your ladyship would allow me, one look at the boy. 
I ’ll not say a word you ’d mislike — and — I have it on my mind 
that I shall not live long — and I ’m fearing I ought to tell you 
that — secret — about Sam Porter and — ” 

“Ah,” interrupted Lady Bidebank, wearied of the poor dame’s 
slow, unsatisfactory speech, “are you Dame — yes, Chitton, that I 
saw at Paddington Almshouse? Well, you can see the boy — • 
it is but natural — only do not disturb his mind with any hints 
about relations. He thinks he is my son, and shall think so 
until he is old enough to understand. I ’ll send him in.” 

“And, my lady, before or after, may I speak to you ; perhaps 
— I should tell you a thing about his — his birth — a secret, my 
lady.” 


102 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ I am so occupied to-day that I can wait to hear nothing ; and 
I do not know that I wish to hear any secret connected with this 
child. When I come to tell him that he was not my son, I shall 
not wish to be driven to painful disclosures by close questioning. 
Secrets, dame, are beasts, which it is well to let sleep— they are 
liable to wake up rabid.” 

“ Yes, my lady,” said the bewildered dame, courtesying. 

“And so, there is a pound to buy you some sugar and tea, 
and I will send the young gentleman in, and you must be care- 
ful what you say to him.” 

Lady Bidebank departed, and sent her own maid, who knew 
all about the adoption, to take the boy to Dame Chitton, and to 
see that she did not make dangerous disclosures. 

In came Sir Rupert, dressed in royal purple velvet, a lace frill 
at his neck, a tiny watch and gold chain decorating him like an 
order— his chestnut curls falling over his shoulders — a big, bold, 
jolly boy. What a spring of life he would have been to poor 
Elizabeth, who would not now be dust in her grave if this child 
had grown up beside her ! 

“What do you want to see me for?” demanded Sir Rupert, 
royally, of his humble visitor. 

“Because, my little gdfitleman, I used to see you and nurse 
when you was a little baby.” 

“And who is that man in the ’servatory ?” asked Rupert, his 
keen glance detecting the hiding Timmy. 

“ He is a young man who brought me in a cart to see you. 
Come out, Timmy, and make your bow to this fine young gentle- 
man.” 

“I don’t call him young,” said Sir Rupert, looking closely at 
Timmy, “and is a cart nice to ride in?” 

“Bless your heart! It do for poor folks? My, but ain’t 
he a splendid young gentleman? Wouldn’t poor Sam an’ 
Jane—” 

Dame Chitton paused. 

“ Who are Sam and Jane?” demanded Sir Rupert. 

“ Oh, just people I used to know. God save them, they are 
dead ! Is his mark on his leg still ?” 

This question was addressed to the maid. 

“You mean my ace of hearts /” demanded the prince, 
promptly dropping the toy whip wherewith he was tapping his 


MYRA QUARRELS WITH HER HEIR. 


103 


patent-leather boots, rolling down his silk stocking and exhibit- 
ing the black heart. “ There, now !” 

“ Bless and save us 1” remarked Mr. Titlow. 

“ It ’s as clear as ever,” said the dame. 

“ Do you know how it came ?” asked the maid, more curious, 
because less educated, than her mistress. 

“ I know well,” said Dame Chitton, pursing up her mouth. 

“ Dear me, do tell me.” 

Dame Chitton longed to tell her, but there stood Sir Rupert 
staring with wide, black eyes. Her ladyship’s golden pound 
was in her clasp, and it would not be unpleasant to come again 
and see this wonderful little prince and get another golden 
pound. 

Dame Chitton shook her head. 

“There ’s the story of the mark and the secret, too. If ever 
her ladyship wishes me to speak ’em, let her send for me. I’m 
her most obedient — ” • 

“ She said she supposed you would not come again,” spoke up 
the rebuffed maid. 

“You come when you like, old lady,” said Sir Rupert, with 
lofty grace, “ and here ’s a flower for you to take home.” 

He darted into the conservatory and broke off a gray spray of 
heliotrope and a crimson cactus. 

“Oh, Master Rupert! Your mamma will be angry!” cried 
the maid. 

“Can’t I do what I please with my own things?” said Sir 
Rupert. 

So we see he was very firmly intrenched in Bidebank Hall. 

“ It ’s time you went to breakfast,” said the maid. “ You are 
to go to breakfast with her ladyship and the great people.” 

So Dame Chitton, almshouse nurse, saw the child she had 
reared carried off to breakfast with a lord chancellor, a duke’s 
heir and an archbishop, besides individuals of lesser note, and the 
dame herself went off with Timmy Titlow in the cart. 

“ That ’s a werry fine boy,” said Timmy, meaning no insolence. 
“I couldn’t ’a’ guessed he b’longed to you.” 

“Jane always said he looked like aristocracy,” said the dame, 
with pride. 

“ And that ’s a werry curious mark,” 

Dame Chitton was silent. 


io4 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“Would you mind telling me about it? And you mentioned 
a secret.” 

“I did mention a secret,” said the dame, “but I would mind 
telling them very much.” 

“Secrets,” quoth Timmy Titlow, “ is very corroding to the 
mind. / think they ought to be let out.” 

“ I can’t tell this to any one but her ladyship.” 

“Mebbe she’ll never ask it of you, and you might die with 
that there on your mind which oughtn’t to be kept by the dead.” 

“ When I come to die, Timmy, I ’ll tell you all the story, if my 
Sam ain’t back, and if I haven’t told my lady.” 

“ But you might die'suddent, and there you ’d be.” 

“That’s so, Timmy,” said Dame Chitton. “Well, I think 
I ’ll write it out keerful like and put it in a safe place, and then, 
when I’m dead, it won’t be lying on my mind. I can write, 
Timmy. I was well eddicated, and so was my Jane. I sent her 
to Dame’s school.” 

“There’s the Reservoir,” said Timmy. “I’ve been night- 
watch there for ten years. Once I had a’ adventure there. I see 
a ghost. I don’t mind telling you.” 

Mr. Titlow, therefore, launched into the five-hundredth edition 
of the “Story of Timmy Titlow and the Ghost,” revised and 
enlarged, with copious additions by the author, appendix, preface 
and supplement, royal octavo, etc. 

When he had finished he looked at his companion. 

Dame Chitton was trembling and was deadly pale. 

“That there’s areal bang-up ghost story, ain’t it, old lady?” 
said Tim Titlow, triumphantly. 

“ When— when did you have this— dream ?” she faltered. 

“‘ Dream?’ It wasn’t a dream, but a real, live ghost! And 
it were just eight year ago the ioth of this blessed June.” 

The dame began groaning. 

“ Are you anywise sick— Asiatic cholera or asthma ?” 

“ No,” said Dame Chitton. “ I was only thinking.” 

“ It’s that secret. You’d better out with it,” said Timmy. 

“ Not to you, Timmy— not to you,” said the dame, shutting up 
her mouth with the impenetrability of a sphinx. 

Dame Chitton came no more to see Lady Bidebank’s adopted 
son ; but Timmy Titlow had glimpses of that young gentleman 
riding in a carriage with his mamma, or rattling along on a 


MYRA QUARRELS WITH HER HEIR. 


105 


white Shetland pony, with a tall groom at his heels, or playing 
in the gardens of Bidebank. Timmy always touched his hat rev- 
erentially to this gorgeous boy; and Sir Rupert bowed with the 
condescension of a young emperor in return. Once, too, he 
gave Mr. Timmy Titlow a crown as a keepsake. 

A rollicking youngster was this, with a flash and a smile of 
the big black eyes for every one; and behind that flash and smile 
still that dew of tears which had come there at Mrs. Baby-Farmer’s. 
Sir Rupert had no more devoted worshiper than Mr. Titlow. 

As for Myra, she was this child’s Minerva, who led him wisely 
through the devious ways of this world. She lectured him for 
pride and prodigality. She made him ask pardon of his com- 
rades when he had sinned against them. She taught him that 
outbursts of passion were a weakness, and she made a friend of 
him and led him steeps of lofty ambition. What hours she 
spent in thinking how good it would have been if Elizabeth’s 
child had grown up in his own home, and had grown as this 
child was growing; and she could have trained her heir and been 
free of the encroachments ot the Wrigleys ! Not that she dis- 
liked the Wrigley brood of juniors; they were well enough in 
their way, resembling rather their mother than their father, while 
“ Our Eldest ” and little Mi were very nice indeed. “ Our Third ” 
was an insufferable little prig, and the two elder little girls were as 
ugly in their manners as in their faces — and that was saying a 
good deal for them — while “Our Youngest Boy” — the embryo 
midshipman — was the model and moral of his respected father. 

With that father Myra had this autumn, after she bought the 
Fitzroy estate, a tremendous quarrel. 

At last James Wrigley’s strenuous efforts had secured him that 
title which was lying idle. The highest court in the kingdom 
concluded that after an absence of eight years little Sir Rupert 
must be considered dead, unless he could be shown to be alive. 
Doctor Wrigley had now reached one height of his desires. He 
dropped the odious medical handle to his name and stood — Sir 
James Wrigley, of Barth. But then, you see, he wanted to get 
into Parliament — there was to be a general election — and he must 
represent the Barth interests. He asked of his cousin Myra six 
thousand pounds to cover his election expenses. 

Myra declined to grant the aid. 

Wrigley prayed, begged, demanded. All in vain. 


io6 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“I can give — not lend — I don’t lend,” said Miss Barth, “two 
thousand pounds which has accrued out of the income of fifteen 
thousand pounds, which, if Elizabeth’s child returns, will legally 
be mine. That two thousand pounds you can have, but I can do 
no more !” 

“I’m sick to death of hearing about Elizabeth’s child. You 
know as well as I do,” roared the doctor, “ that it will never 
come back.” 

“On the contrary, I daily hope and expect to find it.” 

“ You cannot beguile me with that talk, Myra, if you can 
Doctor Brice and old Mellodew, and the rest. I know too much,” 
stormed the doctor; “and if you drive me to the wall, I ’ll tell 
what I know ! You are not treating me, the next heir, properly. 
I ought to be living in this house with you, as your proper pro- 
tector — the guardian of the future interests of my son. I ought 
to share these fortunes, which you have gained — shall I say how? 
You refuse me money; you give me petty aid; you keep me in 
Clematis Villa like a tradesman — me , me , me! I won’t stand 
it!” 

“ There is one thing,” said Myra, rising in wrath, “ that is not 
to be endured by me — and that is your insolence. If you forget 
yourself in this manner, I must request you not to come to Barth 
House.” 

“And I say I will come, and I will share it, too. If you will 
not treat me decently from love, my lady, you shall from fear. 
Answer me ! What took you to the Reservoir at midnight on the 
night Elizabeth's child was lost ?" 

Now, though Myra was forever accusing herself in this matter, 
she would suffer accusation from no one else. She rose grandly to 
her own rescue. She never flinched or quailed; she looked 
Wrigley straight in the eye. 

“ Leave my house, or I shall ring for the footmen to put you 
out!” 

“ But you were at the Reservoir that night !” 

“ Prove it /” retorted Myra, flashing lightnings at him. 

“ I will prove it,” shouted Wrigley. 

“And explain at the same time,” said Myra, clearly, “why 
you put that child which Lady Bidebank has adopted — at 
that baby-farmer' s ! We have traced it to you !" 

This blossom from the garden of Miss Barth’s speech had on 


MYRA QUARRELS WITH HER HEIR. 


10 / 


Wrigley all the effect of a Upas blossom. He withered under 
it — he reeled. 

“ What do you mean ?” he gasped. 

“Exactly what I say. We have seen this sword swinging 
over your head these six years — but you have a family, and, un- 
fortunately, we are related.” 

In this dangerous interview the woman towered and grew 
aggressive, and the man shrunk and cowered. 

For the one was sound at heart — the other was rotten to 
the core. 

Now, as the guilty is a coward, and the coward always does 
the worst thing possible for himself, Wrigley, following this rule, 
cried out : 

“ If you say that — I am ruined !” 

“ I don’t care if you are ruined,” retorted Myra, savagely. 

“ But — I can dispute it — disprove it ” — this last with less 
decision — “but the charge and combating it would hinder my 
election.” 

“ And I think you should not be elected.” 

“ Where is the use of our quarreling, my cousin? I forgot 
myself — I spoke with haste.” 

“ But I spoke with deliberation,” saidMyra. 

“ And yet under a mistake,” continued Wrigley, smoothly. 
“ Still, let us say no more about it. We must not be enemies; 
and if you cannot, or will not — which is much the same thing — 
lend me six thousand pounds, I ’m sure I ought to take very thank- 
fully the two thousand which you freely offered to give — give , I 
think you said, Cousin Myra.” 

“Yes, I said give, and I will abide by my offer.” 

“And, taking it, you will understand, my cousin,” said Wrig- 
ley, “that I entirely relinquish any unpleasant ideas or accusa- 
tions, which I may have in my haste suggested. I shall never 
refer to them again. And, as to that other little matter, in which 
you are entirely mistaken—” Myra knit her brows and shrugged 
her handsome shoulders at him defiantly. “ If you will put it 
out of your mind entirely, it will promote good feeling between us 
as relatives.” 

“ I will give you a check for the two thousand pounds.” 

“And we will shake hands and be friends?” 

Miss Barth gave him the tips of two fingers. 


io8 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


And thus these two parties had come to terms and had mutually 
stacked their arms and marched off the field with the honors of war. 

But they hated each other worse than ever. 

And more forcibly than ever had come into Wrigley’s mind the 
need of getting Sir Rupert out of the way. It could not be that 
with Myra forever on the search she should fail to find what was 
so near her hand. Besides, he learned that Dame Chitton had 
been to visit Lady Bidebank. 

He sent for Tony Pettigrew, who had fully embarked in a stroll- 
ing life. 

“ If you ’ll get off that child from Lady Bidebank, and carry 
him to America or Australia or somewhere on the continent, and 
lose him, I ’ll buy you a half-share in your show, and you ’ll be 
master there and not sub — ” 

“I’m dead ag’in’ kidnapin’,” said Tony ; “ not so much as it ’s 
wicked as dangerous — ” 

“There ’ll be no danger if you manage well.” 

“ There ’d be a catch somewheres, and I ’d get caught,” re- 
sponded Tony. “ If the boy were bigger so as I could coax him 
off, and say as he went of his own free will, why, sir, it could be 
did; but as it stands, them unfeelin’ juries, they’d conwict me 
o’ kidnaping.” 

“ I could make it worth your while to run the risk,” urged 
Wrigley. 

“No, doctor — no, sir,” said Tony, with a fine burst of enthu- 
siasm; “you could not. Sir, I love my native land, but you 
could pay me for leavin’ of old Britannia rule the waves. Sir, I 
love my profession as a travelling showman, but you could make 
it worth my while to abandon — oh, merry it is in the good green- 
wood ! But, sir, I love my cha -racter. You can’t pay Tony 
Pettigrew for his cha -racter. I ’d do anything else to oblige you 
— I would, sir — but not Tony’s cha -racter. Why, sir, what’s any 
man without character! He’sa ship without a rudder ! He’sa 
tree without a root; he’s a’ouse without a foundation; he’s a 
purse without a penny in it; he’s beer without ’ops; he’s 
watered whisky, sir. That’s what he are with-out cha-rac ter /” 

“ Confound you for a humbug! You have had no character 
big enough to see without a microscope since I first knew you, 
Tony. Why object to parting with so very little 

“That’s just it!” cried Tony, cordially. “ It is little. I’ve 


A PAIR OF LOVERS. 


IO9 


run it down just as low as I can to have any left. But with cha- 
rac-ters, sir, as with money, the less you ’ave the more careful 
you ’as to be of ’em. It ’s folks as ’as large capital as can afford 
to be swells, an’ lay out lavish. Folks as is run down to a farden, 
sir — why, they has to lay that out judiciously, and make the most 
of it. They has, indeed, sir. You know how that is, doctor /” 


CHAPTER XII. 

A PAIR OF LOVERS. 

Doctor Wrigley got his seat in Parliament, and he got in debt 
withal. 

The title and the parliamentary position were far from being 
unmixed blessings. To sit in the chief councils of the nation, to be 
a “Sir,” and at the same jto live in Clematis Villa, to keep no 
carriage, not even a coupe, to have but two maids, and a boy in 
blue and buttons, and a governess, who also for her small 
stipend helped sew and acted betimes as lady’s-maid — all these 
things were incongruities. 

Mrs. Wrigley felt that, since her husband was in Parliament, 
she should have more expensive bonnets and give dinners. 

The boys thought they should have more pocket-money. The 
little girls demanded better clothes. 

But money for none of these things was forthcoming. Mrs. 
Wrigley applied to Myra. She fairly implored that the east wing 
of the mansion should be conferred upon them. 

“And then, Miss Barth, we should have some place to give 
dinners, and your servants know how that is to be done. I am 
sure I don’t. And you could let us use your carriages. And 
it would suit James’s present position so well for us to go out 
with men in livery. You must see we cannot maintain our posi- 
tion if you do not help us like that.” 

“I advised your husband against that position,” said Myra, 


I TO 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ and I am sure, besides, that my servants would never be suited 
to serve two establishments. More than that, Mrs. Wrigley, I do 
not think your husband and I would agree if we came to close 
quarters, and the farther we live apart the better.” 

“ /wanted James to let alone the title and the seat and hold 
on to his practice,” said Mrs. Wrigley. “ It was respectable, 
and we could live up to our position. I just told him that striving 
after all these honors was like that calf that put on the lion’s 
skin — he couldn’t eat lion nor live lion after it was on. But he 
would have his way. You ought to be glad you can take your 
course and not have a man’s vagaries to trouble you. But, just 
as I told James, we couldn’t count on a handsome young woman 
like you not marrying. You were likely to marry any day and 
have a half-dozen children — that is, as soon as so many children 
might be expected — and even if you didn’t marry, why, we 
couldn’t look for you to die. You ’re younger than we are. 
James is always counting on your dying young , as your mother 
did, but, la, I tell him girls don’t always take after their mothers, 
or my two would be handsomer.” 

Myra half rose from her seat, and her eyes glittered for an 
instant ; then she said : 

“ Well, really, it is beyond all reason that I should be asked 
to house and support a family who are deliberately counting on 
my death !” 

“For goodness’ sake! What have I said?” cried poor Mrs. 
Wrigley. “ Something that I oughtn’t to, I ’ll be bound. Don’t 
let it prejudice you, Miss Barth. I declare, / don’t count on 
your dying. I’d be glad if you’d live a thousand years! 
You’ve been very good to my children, and Our Oldest and 
little Mi just dote on you !” Tears were in her eyes. 

Miss Barth restrained herself. 

What, she said to herself, was she to complain of people who 
begrudged an heir life and property ? Had she not done the very 
same, even to blood so near as her half-brother? 

But our faults always look so much worse to us when they stare 
nakedly out of other people’s speech. Myra, instead of yielding 
to wrath, was ready to assign a penance to herself and to do 
more for these Wrigleys— not for him , after what he had said, 
but for the mother and the children. 

The paid search for Sir Rupert had ceased again. It did not 


A Pair of lovers. 


in 


take all Myra’s six hundred — the income for which she felt she 
need never give an account to anybody — to educate the little 
Wrigleys. She could make a little broader margin somewhere 
on their account. She said : 

“Mrs. Wrigley, I can never consent to receiving your family 
as part of my household. I cannot give Mr. Wrigley an income 
sufficient to enable him to get a larger house or keep a carriage ; 
but I will take little Mi here, if you like, and provide entirely 
for her, and I will give you two hundred pounds a year to help 
along in the housekeeping.” 

And so little Mi came to Barth House, glad, in her childish 
way, to be in a finer place, and especially glad to be rid of the 
pelting hail of her father’s tirades against Miss Barth’s mean- 
ness, selfishness, folly and cruelty to him, the rightful heir. 

Mi came to Barth House, and was more than ever with Sir 
Rupert, who expatiated as freely in Barth as in Bidebank terri- 
tories, and exacted homage from Mi like a little monarch, and 
sometimes repaid that homage kindly and sometimes crossly. 

And now shall we recount of this gallant infant that he turned 
traitor — that this little knight disgraced the days of chivalry and 
the golden age of childhood by proving recreant to his innocent 
and devoted little mistress? 

Alas ! thus Sir Rupert showed his kinship with the fallen 
human race. 

On Lady Bidebank’s estate there was a very charming, small 
house called Bidebank Lodge. This had been let for some years 
to an old naval officer, who had now died, and presently Mr. 
Mellodew requested Lady Bidebank to rent the place to an 
Italian lady, a widow, the Contessa Idria. 

This lady’s mother had been an English woman. The contessa 
found her husband’s nearest kin hostile to herself and her child. 
Her income was reduced, and she preferred to leave her native 
land and live in retirement in England. 

Lady Bidebank rented the lodge accordingly, and the Contessa 
Idria arrived with her maid, a French governess, a couple of 
servants, and her daughter. 

Sir Rupert was now almost ten. Mi was eight, and so was the 
newcomer eight. The little stranger had no advantage one way 
or the other in point of.age. But from the moment that Rupert 
found Natolie Idria wandering in the Bidebank woods, her arms 


1 1 2 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


full of ferns and primroses, he established her as a divinity before 
whose shrine he worshiped. He had given himself toward English 
Mi the airs of a master. If she had fought him she might have 
had a longer allegiance than she gained by submission. But 
before Natolie, the splendid, little Sir Rupert fell down as a slave, 
and into her thralldom, also; he dragged little Mi. 

The very hour he saw her he proffered service by carrying 
home for her her sylvan plunder, “ because the roots were muddy,” 
and he ruined his new suit thereby and was scolded by Lady Bide- 
bank’s maid. Thereupon he regarded himself as a martyr in a 
good cause and looked on the spoiled suit with mournful satis- 
faction. But more than that, as he proceeded with Miss Natolie 
toward Bidebank Lodge, they met Mi, and Sir Rupert impressing 
her into service, bade her give her handkerchief to the new prin- 
cess to wipe the mud. from her fingers. The princess had a frag- 
ment of embroidered cambric which might have been used ; but 
that was too fine for such service, and Mi obediently offered 
seizin by yielding up her handkerchief. 

All these honors Miss Natolie took as a matter of course and 
headed the procession to her own gate, talking but little, as her 
English was limited. At the gate she took the flowers, and said 
with lofty coolness to her new serfs : “Good-bye; I do not yet 
know if I am to play with you allowed by my mamma.” 

This labored speech was regarded by the other two as very 
magnificent, and they ran off together. 

Mi did not know that she had lost her true love. 

Then Rupert was scolded about his clothes. 

And Mi was reproved because of her soiled handkerchief. 

* * * * * * * 

But there are on the earth other woods than those of England. 
The Bidebank woods have beech and fir and oak and poplar 
and primroses, forget-me-nots, violets and ferns ; but cradled in 
tropic seas are islands where feathery palms rise, and bread-fruit 
spreads broad branches, and spice perfumes the air, and the 
sugar-cane shakes its fasces. In these regions vegetation and 
bfute life develop largely, and humanity withers. Here you find 
indolent, capricious, small-muscled humans ; natives with a deal 
of tiger in their dispositions, and a small, indeed the very small- 
est, amount of clothes. 

Such are the Seychelle Islands, moored like a fleet of green 


A PAIR OF LOVERS. 


113 

ships in the Indian Ocean; and on the loneliest, most diminutive 
and distant Seychelle, lived an Englishman, who had been in exile 
about ten years. This Englishman was Jasper Fitzroy. The 
ten years since his shipwreck in the Ocean Queen had made him 
grave and a little gray. Not so much by the passage of time — for 
that might only have built him up in manly strength — but the 
years had brought sorrows and continued ill-fortune. He felt 
like one against whom had gone out a death-warrant and a bill 
of attainder. He had both of these documents and kept them 
locked up in his desk. Not that he had been shipwrecked with 
a library, a knee-hole table, and a dressing-case, and all modern 
convenience, but — he had been shipwrecked, and he possessed 
some of these conveniences. 

Jasper, like the other souls on the Ocean Queen , had taken to a 
boat. The boat on which he ventured himself was driven on 
one of the Seychelles. The Seychelles belong to Mauritius, and 
Mauritius to England. 

Jasper and the other starved, naked and battered wretches with 
him found a modicum of succor on their island, and dragged out 
existence for four months, during which one of the five men died. 
They were at last taken up by a sailing-vessel from Mauritius and 
carried on it back to that island. One of the rescued ones was 
lost overboard on the way, and on reaching port at the island, 
Jasper and one of the two comrades left him, being very ill, were 
carried to a wretched den called a hospital. 

As Jasper was being removed he saw the mate of a vessel just 
departing for Calcutta, and he asked him to bring him any letters 
which might be lying at his former partner’s office for him. The 
mate duly performed his errand. He found that Jasper’s partner 
had just died, but that two letters for Mr. Fitzroy were at the 
office. One had been opened; the other had just arrived and 
was yet sealed. 

Jasper lingered long, half alive and half dead, at the Mauritian 
Ospedale, and was but hoping soon to get a passage to England, 
when the mate to whom he had given his commission returned, 
bringing the two letters. The opened one was from Myra, brief, 
constrained, inexplicable : 

“Dear Jasper: I hardly know what I am saying or doing. I wrote you 
to come home. I am sorry I wrote. All is going wrong. Something dread- 
ful has happened. I fear I may not he able to keep my promise. Do not 


It4 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


give up a good business and success for me. For, when you had come here, 
you might find we could not ever be married, and all the rest of your plans 
broken up. I can’t explain more to you now. I feel that I am writing wildly . 
How wretched I am ! How miserable we both are likely to be l Good-bye. 

“ Your distracted Myra.” 

1 This was the letter which Myra had written to countermand 
her entreaty to Jasper to return home — the letter written in all 
the excitement, anxiety and disappointment of knowing first that 
Elizabeth was expecting a child, who might be heir of all the 
Barth property. 

Of course to the bewildered mind of Jasper this wild note might 
mean anything. 

He tore open the other, written after the disappearance of 
Elizabeth’s child and before the loss or wreck of Jasper on the 
Ocean Queen had been suspected : 

“ Mr. Jasper Fitzroy : With great reluctance, I write tbis in deference 
to the wishes of my cousin, Miss Myra Barth, who, in the turn which affairs 
have taken, naturally is unwilling to write herself, and deputes the task to 
me as her nearest relative. 

“Various business complications made it seem desirable to the late Sir 
Giles Barth that his daughter should marry some one of unincumbered 
fortune, who could put her affairs in proper shape. Sir Giles’s had 
become much entangled. The nephew and heir of the late Lord Bidebank 
has long been devoted to Miss Barth, and she feels it her duty, in obedi- 
ence to the desires of her late parent, to confer on Lord Bidebank her hand. 
This news will doubtless be painful; but your observation will have taught 
you not only that absence is wont to chill love, but that early engagements 
are seldom carried out. Miss Barth relies on your friendship and generosity 
not to reproach her nor to disturb her new relation. 

“I should not have committed myself to this disagreeable duty except 
that I had known you as a lad; and I knew that I could rely on you to 
burn this letter as soon as read, that my name and interference may be 
hereafter disconnected from this trying subject. 

“ Believe me, sincerely, James Wrigley.” 

Doctor Wrigley had sent off this letter immediately after learn- 
ing that the Barth baby was gone, and before he had had any 
interview with Myra. He did it in the madness of the hour, when 
he felt that if he could keep Myra single, or shorten her life by a 
broken heart, he would be sure to arrive one day at the Barth 
fortune. He relied a little on Jasper Fitzroy’s proud and high-strung 
disposition to make this move a success. No sooner did he post 
the letter than he was in terror over what might be the conse- 
quence. But the step was taken. 

Then followed weeks of anxiety. After that, the news of the 


A Pair of lovers. 


wreck of the Ocean Queen and the loss of Jasper Fitzroy claimed 
his anxieties, while he blamed himself for having taken a danger- 
ous and, as the event proved, a needless step. Years went by, 
and no voice rose out of the waves, and the letter was remem- 
bered but seldom by its author, and then only as one of the 
things buried in the past. 

As for Jasper Fitzroy, in the first hours of his fury he burned 
both letters, and heaped wrath and obloquy on the name ot the 
girl who had deserted him. He also said many strong and bad 
words about Lord Bidebank, which happened to be both cruel 
and superfluous, inasmuch as that amiable young nobleman had 
been engaged to his cousin since he was sixteen, and married 
her about the time that Doctor Wrigley wrote his letter. 

Thus Jasper Fitzroy at Mauritius, while Myra at home mourned 
him as dead, found himself in a very dismal case. His health was 
broken; his true love had deserted him and married another, 
and all the property which he had made in India was sunk in 
the sea with the Ocean Queen j his friend and partner was dead, 
and he himself had nothing but that heavily mortgaged estate, 
which he had left home to save, and which he had now almost 
no hope of saving. 

He concluded that the mortgage would be less likely to be fore- 
closed if his own life or death should be left in doubt. He set 
himself doggedly to work to try to redeem his promise to his 
father, but all the business which offered was for a small firm in 
Mauritius. His disappointment and poverty hindered him from 
communicating with any one formerly known, and by some per- 
versity of fate his miseries were confirmed and increased by two 
papers which at long-distant intervals fell into his hands. One 
was torn through the account of Lord Bidebank’s marriage, and 
he read that at such a church, day and hour, by the Rev. Bishop 
So-and-so, assisted by the Rev. Dean And-so-forth, and the Rev. 
Mr. So-on, Lord [half a dozen names] Bideba [torn] Miss M 
[torn again] daughter of the late Sir [another tear] and then 
the names — somewhat torn— of the bridemaids, and a list of some 
of the marriage presents. Of course, that maintained what Dr. 
Wrigley had written to him ; and it was so easy to supply “ Myra 
Barth, daughter of the late Sir Giles Barth,” &c. 

Forlorn and helpless in his exile, separated from all he held 
dear, Jasper pursued up-hill work with very ill success, and had 


ii6 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


not a quarter of the money needed, when, after seven years of 
exile, he fell upon another paper, which mentioned the sale of 
the Fitzroy Towers and the Fitzroy estate on foreclosure of mort- 
gage, price received, sixty-eight thousand pounds, bought, it was 
understood, by a lawyer, who meant to lay out a large sum in 
repairs. 

“ Sixty-eight thousand,” sighed Jasper, “ a sum quite beyond 
a poor fellow like me, but not nearly what the old place was worth.” 

And so some other years passed on, and one morning, at his 
place on this little lonely Seychelle, superintending the loading 
of a vessel for the Mauritian House in which he was junior partner, 
Jasper received a call from a British tar, sent ashore from a ship 
lying a mile from land. That tar was no other than Sam Porter. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

HOW THE “ BABETTE ” PERISHED AT SEA. 

When Sam Porter accomplished his errand, to the English 
exile it involved a piece of paper signed “Jasper Fitzroy.” To 
Sam, long banished, a “ wandering vassal of the faithless deep,” 
the name awoke home recollections. He could not remain silent. 

“There was an estate, sir, west of Lun’on — Fitzroy Towers. 
Are you connected nigh there, sir?” 

“ I was,” said Jasper. “ Have you been there, my man?” 

The very name of the old place was as a breath of native air. 

“ I lived nigh there,” said Sam. “ My home was just beyond 
the Reservoir, and I ’ve often walked along by those estates, Bide- 
bank, Fitzroy and Barth. I worked for Miss Barth about nine 
year-ago. She were very good to me; but the steward took 
offense at — I don’t know what — and turned me off without warn- 
ing.” 

“Did you — often see — Miss Barth?” asked Jasper, in spite of 
himself. 


HOW THE “BABETTE” PERISHED AT SEA. Iiy 

“Aye; she walked in the grounds, and sometimes she gave 
me half a crown for my Jane. She were a very handsome young 
lady, who never smiled and who wore widow’s mourning.” 

“That could not be Miss Barth,” said Jasper, who could not 
reconcile this grave, dark picture with the memory of his joyous 
Myra, in the delicate rose or blue robes in which she formerly 
delighted. 

“Oh, yes, sir, it were Miss Barth; the steward told my Jane 
the young lady had had a deal o’ trouble. Her father died, an’ 
summat dreadful happened to the little step-brother, an’ the 
gentleman she were to marry got drownded at sea.” 

“I thought Miss Barth married young Lord Bidebank?” said 
Jasper. 

“ She hadn’t when I were working there. Well do I remem- 
ber it was nine years ago this last June as ever was; and then 
she were in widow’s weeds. I mind her goodness to my poor 
Jane.” 

“And have you not been back since ? Do you know nothing 
of that part of the country for nine years?” demanded Jasper. 

“ No, sir. I got out o’ work, and then I was seized and carried 
off to sea. Well, sir, I left behind me my poor Jane, and the 
child, and Jane’s old mother. I wrote to ’em, sending my letter 
through Doctor Wrigley — I was servant for him once, sir — and I 
got no answer to one or two letters ; and then I heard at last from 
the doctor as Jane and her mother had died o’ a ’demic — whatever 
a ’demic may be — and what had I to go back for then ?” 

“ Only — the child,” said Jasper, who had been following the 
story with half his mind. 

“ Well, sir, the child wasn’t mine. I ’dopted it long of Jane’s 
baby dying. And Doctor Wrigley wrote me that child was 
’dopted by a nice woman, so I did not worry more about him. 
He ’d been a sort o’ load on my conscience always along o’ Jane’s 
bein’ deceived.” 

“Doctor Wrigley seems bound to be a messenger of ill news 
— a perfect raven,” said Jasper Fitzroy. “And you are quite 
sure Miss Barth did not marry Lord Bidebank?” 

“Not afore I worked for her, sir; but I remember Lord 
Bidebank were married before that — ’bout a year — for Dame 
Chitton, my mother-in-law, she see the bride.” 

“And who told you Miss Barth’s lover was lpst at sea?” 


1 1 8 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ One o’ the maids told Jane, sir. It were along of a dog, 
sir. That dog, the maid said, howled and tore, and tried as if to 
drag Miss Barth to save her lover, sir. He knew so well some- 
thing had happened to he. All the family made sure that Miss 
Barth was going to die or something awful had happened, and so 
it turned out. And she wore widder’s mourning, sir, and werry 
becoming.” 

Sam Porter had done the most of his talking at the edge of a 
little shed where Jasper Fitzroysat on a barrel which formed an 
office stool before his battered desk. A few dark fellows were 
lounging here and there, supposedly at work. There was a 
flavor of spice and tropic fruits in the air, and against the 
cloudless sky the ship from which Sam had come rocked in the 
quivering heat of noon. Two sailors sat under the shade of a 
palm which leaned over the beach. 

“ Mebby I might have got home, sir, afore now,” said Sam 
in conclusion. “But what’s home when all your folks is dead 
and gone? And, as perhaps you see yourself, sir, one gets out o’ 
the habit o’ going home. They ’re good enough to me aboard 
the ship, sir. But sometimes something pulls at my heartstrings 
and I want to see my Jane’s grave.” 

Something was pulling at Jasper Fitzroy’s heartstrings after 
his talk with his unexpected guest, but he turned his back, 
British fashion, and was silent. 

“Good day to you, sir,” said Sam. “It’s done me a power o’ 
good to see some one who has seen the same places that I have.” 

And soon the dip of oars signified that Sam was on his way 
back to the ship, that lay white and glittering between blue sea 
and blue sky. 

Jasper unlocked his desk and took out that torn bit of news- 
paper wherewith he had been wont to stifle any home yearnings 
by considering the fickleness of women. The date was there 
plain enough. It was ten years since Lord Bidebank married, 
and the date of Doctor Wrigley’s letter was scorched into his 
brain ; that was ten years ago also. 

Fitzroy grew restless from that day. 

Had he been deceived ? But why or by whom ? Had Myra 
mourned for him as a widow? 

But, even if she had, little could her mourning be expected 
to extend over ten years ; and now, no doubt, she was some- 


HOW THE “BABETTE” PERISHED AT SEA. 119 

body’s wife, if not Lord Bidebank’s, and children were playing 
about her. 

Now possibly this part of Jasper’s notion might have been true 
if Myra had not had that terrible experience about Elizabeth’s 
child. 

It was only a little time after this that Jasper Fitzroy returned 
to Mauritius, half resolved to close up his business, return to 
England and satisfy himself as to what had happened in his 
absence. 

He had been but two or three days in Mauritius, when going, 
one morning, to the port, he met three sailors carrying a fourth 
in the direction of the hospital. The sick man, leaning against one 
of his bearers, happened to glance at Fitzroy as he passed, and 
at once requested his friends to stop and call the gentleman. 

“ Sir,” the sailor said, “ 1 ’m Sam Porter. Do you mind, sir, 
I was speaking with you a short time back ?” 

“ Ah ! I recognize you now,” said Fitzroy. 

“ I ’m sick, sir — fever, sir. Likely to be left here in ’ospital 
when the ship goes. Sir, will you be so condescending as to 
come and see me? There is on my mind two or three things as 
weighs like, and I want a gentleman’s advisement.” 

“ Certainly. I’ll come around to-morrow,” said Fitzroy. A 
to-morrow of disastrous beginnings to him and Porter. 

The next afternoon Jasper Fitzroy repaired to the hospital, 
carrying some delicacies for his sick countryman. 

During the several days of his illness, Sam Porter had had 
more time for thinking than had ever fallen to his lot since he 
sailed away from Limehouse Reach. Every incident of his Eng- 
lish life rose vividly before him, and naturally enough the gentle- 
man named Fitzroy, who had come from near his own humble 
home, seemed the only link between himself and the past. 

When Jasper had next day seated himself on the sill of a win- 
dow near Sam’s bed, the sick sailor, steadfastly regarding him, 
said quietly : 

“ Sir, I ’ve been laying my recollections together bit by bit, 
and, sir, asking pardon, ain’t you, if the liberty is not too great — - 
ain’t you the gentleman as was lost at sea, and Miss Barth were 
mournin’ for?” 

“I was shipwrecked,” replied Jasper. 

“The young lady took it much to heart,” said Sam, with a 


120 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


shadow of reproach in his tones. “ She ’d have been main glad to 
see you back — asking pardon for the liberty of speaking so free to 
you, sir.” 

“Porter,” said Fitzroy quite driven to desperation. “ I was 
written to by Doctor Wrigley that Miss Barth married Lord Bide- 
bank about the very time I was wrecked.” 

“Eh, sir ! But that were ten years ago, I think you said, and 
nine year ago, certain sure, she weren’t married, and she wore 
weeds for you, sir.” 

Jasper was silent, and Porter continued, meditatively : 

“ Doctor Wrigley is a very good man, but he do seem to have 
the luck of getting mixed up or cornin’ nigh to people’s misfor- 
tins. I spoke with Doctor Wrigley at Barth House, one mornin’, 
and next morning but one as ever was I got notice to leave. 
Then I was gone on an errand for Doctor Wrigley, when I were 
carried off, and never see my family no more. Doctor Wrigley it 
were wrote me my wife and the dame was dead, and Doctor 
Wrigley told me the child was put out. But about the child — 
there ’s where there ’s a weight on me, and I wanted to tell you 
about it.” 

He then explained the death of his own child, and the bringing 
to his house of the child which he had adopted. He mentioned 
Doctor Wrigley ’s advice on the subject, and detailed also the 
original mark, its removal, and the singular black heart which 
resulted. 

“I do not see but you did a charitable act,” said Jasper 
Fitzroy. “The child probably belonged to some unfortunate 
who desired its death.” 

“ But, sir, there was a rumor that a child had been stole or lost 
from one of the great houses nigh. Mebby I ought to searched 
into that. But I feared for Jane. And Doctor Wrigley, he sort 
of laughed at the notion o’ thinking this was great folks’ baby ; 
but he grew up to look like a prince.” 

“ What family lost a child?” asked Jasper, indifferently. 

“ I never heard. But, sir, one day at Barth House, I saw Sir 
Giles’s big black dog come up out o’ a pond o’ water, and he 
looked the very moral o’ the dog that laid the baby at my feet.” 

“But there was no baby at Barth House,” said Jasper, rousing 
into interest again. 

“There had been , sir. Sir Giles’s widow, she had a baby — a 


HOW THE “BABETTE” PERISHED AT SEA. 


121 


boy, I heard tell — some while after Sir Giles died. I mind the 
maid my wife spoke to a time or two said as how Miss Barth was 
so ’mensely rich, but she wouldn’t ’a’ been if the boy of Lady 
Barth wasn’t gone, for he’d ’a’ got it all.” 

“ And did the child die ?” demanded Jasper. 

“Why, yes, I s’pose it died. No one said died to me, as I 
know of, but that was the idea me an’ Jane got. And Lady Giles 
was heartbroke, and, one day, she see Jane with the baby on her 
arm, and she cried, and it made her ill — her ladyship ill, sir, 
not Jane.” 

These were to Jasper strange revelations. Lady Barth a 
mother ! Sir Giles not financially involved ! Myra mourning 
for himself ! 

Had he lived in a delusion all these years ? He left the hos- 
pital and walked through the narrow, crowded streets of Port 
Louis. Around him swarmed and jabbered the motley popula- 
tion of Mauritius — Africans from the East Coast, creoles, Hin- 
doos, French, Dutch, English — every speech and costume of 
the earth seemed struggling in the narrow ways. Down then to 
the inner harbor, the Fanfaron, refuge from whirlwinds and 
tornadoes. Here were vessels loading with cocoa-oil, cocoanuts, 
spices, sugar, fruits ; the air breathed fragrance. A little boat 
was just approaching the wharf from an anchored ship, and as 
the captain sprang ashore, Jasper recognized him as an ancient 
schoolmate. 

“Why, Fitzroy — it is Fitzroy !” cried the captain, holding out 
his hand. “ Of all men ! Why, I had heard that something 
had happened to you. 'Yes, lost in the Ocean Queen , that 
was it !” # 

“ I was wrecked in her, and more than that, my fortunes were 
wrecked too. Here is where I came ashore — and here I am in a 
little commerce in palm oil and tortoise-shell.” 

“Yes — I thought I recognized your name; you were down on 
one of the Seychelles a few weeks ago, when my ship lay off 
there. And you ’ve not been at home since — ” 

“ Twelve years and more — yes, thirteen.” 

“Ah? Well, one gets accustomed to absence. There are 
great changes. You remember I spent a vacation with you once, 
Fitzroy, when we were little fellows? I went out that way to 
look about the old place, two years ago, when I was at home. 


122 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


Bidebank was all illuminated in the evening for a children’s party 
— it was the birthday of Lord Bidebank’s eldest — ” 

“ He married ?” said Jasper, faintly. 

“ Yes, he married his cousin, did Lord Bidebank ; there ’s no 
lack of heirs in this generation, I can tell you. The Bidebank 
nursery swarms. And your estate, Fitzroy Towers, I ’m very 
sorry that’s out of your hands, Fitzroy, my dear fellow.” 

“ I couldn’t save it,” said Jasper, his head drooping. 

“ Miss Barth has put it in splendid order — ” 

“ Who?” roared Jasper. 

“ Why, man, Miss Barth — Sir Giles’s heiress. You remember 
we once went with your father, as lads, to lunch with Sir Giles? 
The daughter was in France at school then. Well, she heired all 
his wealth, and she bought Fitzroy Towers.” 

“ Does she live there?” faltered Fitzroy, leaning against a great 
pyramid of cocoa-nuts — he was so faint he could hardly stand. 

“ No ; she lives at Barth House, and rents the Towers. I say; 
Fitzroy, you’d think every bachelor in London would be fighting 
for that girl, wouldn’t you? By Jove, she ’s as handsome as she 
is rich ! I caught a sight of her walking in her garden, dressed 
in deep mourning, and with three children of eight or ten, or 
thereabouts, running beside her.” 

“ Then she ’s married,” said Jasper, faintly. 

“No, sir; she is not, I know. They say she has not had off 
mourning since Sir Giles died. I think it is wrong to be so 
inconsolable about parents’ death — it is in the order of nature. 
There she stays. They say she is a wonderful business woman, 
and her fortune grows in her hands.* But what good is that? 
She will have no heirs except a man named Wrigley ; a sort of 
sneak who has got into Parliament, and whom no one speaks 
well of. And she won’t go into society, where she might take 
her pick of husbands. I say it ’s wasting advantages. This 
confounded climate is using you up, Fitzroy. You look miserable, 
as if you ’d come down with a fever. I ’d like to ask you to 
take a trip with me, but I’m off for a worse place. I ’m going 
to sail for Siam in a couple of days.” 

Jasper’s gossiping friend was gone, and Jasper staggered to his 
counting-house and locked himself in the inner office. His brain 
whirled. He could not unravel this news. Myra still single ! 
Myra inheritor of enormous wealth ! Myra possessor of Fitzroy 


HOW THE “ EABETTE ” PERISHED AT SEA. 


1-3 


Towers ! She had told him in that letter, which caused him to sail 
on the Ocean Queen , that she would buy the Towers for his sake. 

The next afternoon he repaired to the hospital. Sam Porter 
seemed a link between himself and his early home. By Sam’s 
bed he found his friend, the captain. 

Sam was very feverish, and his excited brain was dwelling on 
the circumstance of his own removal from his native land. He 
narrated the story eagerly to his two guests. 

“ But I got rid of that blasted ship,” he cried, “just about the 
time I had them letters telling me as my Jane was gone and my 
home broke up. So I couldn’t go home then, and I shipped on 
the Spray ; and use is everything, cap’n, and after two year 
more I shipped ’long o’ you.” 

“And well you did,” said the genial captain, “or I should not 
have been here. Don’t you remember, Porter, the time I was 
knocked overboard from the bridge, and you went after me?” 

“That wasn’t much,” said Sam. 

“And do you know Porter?” asked the captain of Jasper. 

“ I found out that he had been servant to some old friends of 
mine,” replied Fitzroy. 

The two gentlemen then walked aside together. 

“Poor fellow! I think he’ll not recover. At best, it will 
be a long pull, and I must sail to-morrow.” 

“ I ’ll look out for him,” said Jasper. 

And so, when the captain went away, he left Sam’s discharge 
and a little canvas bag of money lying beside the sick man’s 
hand. 

Sam did not take as kindly to these things as Jasper had 
hoped. The ship had become his home ; the crew his relations ; 
he looked at the discharge, and felt as one cut adrift from all ties 
and hopes. 

Use, as he had said, was everything. 

“ Cheer up, Porter,” said Fitzroy; “I ’m thinking of closing up 
my affairs here, and going home. I ’ll take you along as my 
servant, if you like. By the time you are well, my business will 
be in shape to leave.” 

ThiS/Cheers up Sam a little— a very little. He does not feel 
quite so like a waif and castaway. 

But he turns wearily on his feverish pillow, and replies, dis- 
mally : 


124 - 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ Thank ye, sir; but I don’t know what / has to go home for. 
Who’s waiting for me? An’ home says I? Why, I hasn’t any 
home. My home is sold out.” 

Which is so exactly Jasper’s case, that these very words, only 
a little more grammatically pronounced and put together, might 
have been his ! 

What is he going home for? To rise like a specter out of 
his grave of years and prove it true that the poet says : 

“ But if they came wlio passed away, 

Behold their brides in other hands ; 

The hard heir strides about their lands, 

And will not yield them for a day.” 

Shall he go back, poor, grave and gray, to the long-forsaken 
girl whose image for years he had been striving to tear from 
heart and brain? The girl to whom he had made love in the 
bright hours of youth and wealth and confidence? 

In fact, he hardly knew what he meant or wanted. But the 
tides of his soul were on their turn, and up and up that wave of 
past love was rising and carrying all before it. 

Day after day he moved steadily on in his preparations. Once 
he had dropped his business at a summons from Myra — dropped 
it with headlong haste, as a child drops a toy. Now, with the 
careful method of a man, he arranged his business with his two 
partners — the spice orchard just coming into bearing, the share 
in the sugar-mill, the business in cocoanut oil, and in the piles 
of tortoise shells, which were going abroad in the civilized world 
in card-cases and combs, in brush-backs and baskets and boxes 
and cases and all manner of nicknackery — should go abroad and 
be paid for and be worn out, perhaps, before this owner should 
ever see a cent of their profits ! 

Once he would have seized the first ship and flown to England 
by white, swelling sails spread as great wings ; for then there was 
no dark shade underlying his love and hope. But now, while one 
impulse pressed him on, another questioned, what would he find 
at the end of the way ; and the carefulness of the man of business 
tempered the recklessness of the lover. 

There was no ship bound round the cape at the time when he, 
with the recovered Sam, was ready to start. Besides, there was 
business — quite important business— to be done in Alexandria; 
and it would be a vast benefit to the struggling firm to have on^ 


HOW THE “BABETTE” PERISHED AT SEA. 


125 


of its members call at Sicily and at Lisbon. These considera- 
tions, united to the fact that a French ship was at Port Louis 
at the very nick of time, bound for Egypt, decided Jasper to go 
by the Red Sea, cross from Suez to Alexandria — there was no 
canal there in those days — and at Alexandria take ship again for 
England. 

Not a word did Jasper Fitzroy send to any old-time acquaint- 
ances of his being alive and about to return. Everybody belong- 
ing to his past seemed dead to him except Myra. 

He would go back, see for himself, present himself, if it were 
better so — if not, he had only to fade back by the next ship into 
the dreamy distance of the Island of Mauritius. 

And now Jasper and his servant, Sam, were on shipboard. 
The Peri was to call at several of the Seychelle Islands; and 
thus Jasper had business to look forward to as relieving the tedium 
of the way. 

But when the Seychelles were left behind, and the ship Peri , 
before a fair wind, skimmed the waters of the Indian Ocean, and 
rounded Cape Guardafui, and fluttered its signals as a salute to 
Perim, guarding the gate of the Red Sea, and on then by Mocha, 
suggestive of fragrant breakfast tables, and Mecca, reminding of 
the prophet, toward where the sacred peaks of Sinai lifted in the 
north and east, then the homeland began to draw the heart of 
Jasper with invisible golden chains. 

Then they left the Peri. 

Camels and a caravan then to Cairo. 

From Cairo to Alexandria. 

At Alexandria the French ship Babette. 

But Babette, like Hugo’s poor grisette of that name, had no 
prosperous voyage on the high seas of life. The stars were 
treacherous to her, the winds were her enemies. The sea be- 
guiled her with unkept promises. Out of the Sahara came the 
hot breath of perdition and drove the Babette to the north and 
east. 

These were days of blackness, these were nights of terror, when 
none counted the hours. 

And then one morning the sun rose on a lulling sea ; bits of 
wreck were scattered around. 

The Babette no more graced (he French merchant service. 

A great portion of what had been a mainmast floated heavily 


ii6 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


up and clown in the growing light, and to this were lashed two 
wretches, and it was hard to tell whether these two were living or 
dead. Hatless, coatless, barefooted, mute, drenched, they drifted 
on at will of wind and wave. They were Jasper Fitzroy and Sam 
Porter. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A PAIR OF CHRISTIAN DOGS. 

Morning, lying redly on the sea around which the world’s his- 
tory has enacted itself. No hand has steered the frail float of the 
English castaways, no voice had hailed them — no prophecy had 
warned them. 

True to its destinies, the broken mast drifted over the bay 
of Adalia and took the shore on a lonely, sandy inlet, above which 
towered an outlying spur of the Taurus Mountains. The mast 
drifted in and grounded fast, and the tideless and now pacified 
main exerted no force to drag it away. 

Lying as they were, lashed to the wood, these two men had 
faces that might have been dead, turned up to the gold and crim- 
son morning sky. 

Over the sand came a squat figure, yards of dirty linen about 
the head, red slippers very much turned up at the toes, full trous- 
ers very much patched, a big knitted sash, wherein was stuck a 
huge pipe, a pouch of tobacco and a knife. 

“ Ah, Allah !” cried the harsh voice of this disreputable one. 
“ Here are two dogs of Christians. I can do no better to please 
the prophet than to hew off their evil heads with my knife.” 

“Stay, Yusef!” shrilly cried another early traveller, a pattern 
of the first, save that he was older, shriller and dirtier, having 
also a jeweled agraffe in his turban, his sash of silk with a jeweled 
dagger and a clasp set with brilliants on his shoulder. “Stay, 
Yusef. If they are dead let us see what they have about them. 
And if the wretched infidels are not dead, remember, oh, wor- 
shiper of the prophet, that Christian dogs can make good 


A PAIR OF CHRISTIAN DOGS. 


slaves to the holy Turks, which, indeed, is the condition for which, 
by the will of Allah, they were born into the world.” 

“No doubt, Master Ibrahaim, they are not,” growled Yusef; 
“ there is nothing so tenacious of life as a rascal of an Englishman. 
And as for valuables — they are a nation of beggars, and never 
have the grace to go abroad with a few jewels or gold pieces upon 
them. While as for work, Master Ibrahaim, by the beard of the 
prophet, they wilt up in this sun like a plucked leaf, and any 
negro from Africa is worth two of them.” 

“ However, Yusef,” said the master, hovering like a bird of prey 
over the senseless bodies, as his servant unbound them, “it is 
well to find a slave or two for whom you need not payout good 
gold in the market; and whether they work little or much, there 
will surely be some profit on them, if one gives them nothing to 
eat and less to wear !” 

Yusef had unfastened the lashings and dragged the castaways 
up on the beach, as if they were a pair of dead sheep. 

“There is nothing on this evil-disposed Christian,” he said, 
angrily, having thrust his hands into Sam Porter’s pockets and 
torn away his shirt. “ He is not worth ten pice. Englishmen 
are the most spiteful creatures in the world !” 

“But this one is worth something!” cried Master Ibrahaim, 
eagerly, as he dragged from Jasper Fitzroy’s waistband pocket 
a gold watch, held by a stout chain of the same metal; and 
unclosing his right hand, wrenched from the little finger a 
large emerald ring. “And see, Yusef, here is a belt about his 
body ! Cut it off! There is money in that !” 

“He is perhaps some milord,” replied Yusef, cutting the 
leathern girdle, which contained, to their vast disappointment, 
only about fifty guineas. “ He has the face of a milord, cold and 
proud, even now, when he does not know whether he is dead or 
alive ! Oh, Master Ibrahaim, we have been born too late, and 
fallen on a very evil age, since we cannot keep this miserable 
rascal a prisoner, and order his beggarly relations to ransom 
him with his weight in gold.” 

“He is not dead,” said Ibrahaim, putting his hand over Jas- 
per’s heart. “Neither is the other dog dead. I see a quiver in 
his eyelids. We must waste a little wine on them, Yusef, which 
hereafter we shall get back in work. Do you pull my flask from 
my girdle and pour a little down their evil throats. It is 


12 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


strange to me, Yusef, that the holy prophet did not prohibit wine 
to infidel beasts, while to all good worshipers of Allah it is for- 
bidden, and I swallow it with fear and trembling, under the name 
of grapes and water.” 

“ It is all one,” said Yusef, roughly straightening the limbs of 
his captives, pouring the wine down their throats and elevating 
their heads a little, as the warm sunshine began to restore life to 
their benumbed limbs. “ It is all one. The celestials must thus 
be dealt with now and then — and when I was in India, did I not 
see holy people, to whom it is forbidden to eat anything that lives, 
eating fish and calling it ‘vegetable of the sea,’ for the beguiling 
of Brahma? But I tell you, noble master, I should feel much 
surer, amid all my iniquities, of getting over the blessed 
Bridge of Gold, if I could add to my virtues that I had sliced off 
these two infidel heads !” 

“It will be just as praiseworthy to slice them off, Yusef, after 
they have served us as far as they may. There is wisdom in 
Englishmen, as there is in the devil, and they will be worth ten 
followers of the prophet, in raising almonds, pomegranates and 
silk for me. Pour in a little more of that noble and forbidden 
drink, destined to take all true followers of the prophet into 
Paradise by the thorny road of sacrifice.” 

Yusef again with reluctance treated the wrecked men as if 
they were bowls, and poured into them from the neck of his 
bottle. 

Between the wine, the sun, a little reluctant rubbing, and the 
reaction of vigorous constitutions, Jasper and Sam presently re- 
vived, to find themselves sole survivors of the unfortunate Babette , 
and lying in the hands of two as forbidding Turks as have ever 
graced the surface of the earth. 

“May the sun forever light up your gracious countenance!” 
said Fitzroy, lifting himself on his elbow, and using the speech of 
Islam, with which he had become slightly acquainted on the 
cosmopolitan Isle of Mauritius. • 

“From what evil land have you come, and to what infidel 
nation do you belong, oh, Christian dog?” replied Yusef. 

“Most noble host,” said Fitzroy, ignoring the servant, and 
keeping his eyes fixed on the master, “ I am an English merchant 
of Mauritius, now on my way home to London. Are any others 
of my ship’s crew saved ?” 


away! where is my boy? murderess !” — See Page 48 







A PAIR OF CHRISTIAN DOG$. 


129 


u The sea knew its business and devoured the infidels,” 
cried Yusef, foaming with fury. 

After another hour, in which Ibrahaim reluctantly doled out 
to each of his captives some cakes of barley-bread, the ship- 
wrecked ones were sufficiently revived to follow their captors inland. 

A walk of less than a mile brought them to a high wall, sur- 
rounding a house and a garden. Beyond this lay an almond or- 
chard, an acre of pomegranate trees and a large plantation of 
mulberries and the sheds and houses used for silk-raising. 

Entering the shady court in the midst of the house, Ibrahaim 
and his major-domo Yusef comfortably folded up their legs be- 
neath them on a mat laid upon a stone bench running around 
the wall. 

“ Fitzroy and Porter were graciously permitted to sit down 
on the pavement, and a Nubian slave presently brought the 
blessed pair of Turks cups of coffee, conserves and bread; in 
which refreshment they did not make their captives sharers. 

Jasper Fitzroy, filled with apprehensions at the fashion of his 
reception, informed Master Ibrahaim that he was on his way to 
England, and anxious speedily to arrive there. If his host 
would bounteously help him to the nearest seaport, as soon as 
he had reached his native land he would return a suitable token 
of his gratitude. 

Ibrahaim briefly responded that he did not believe that grati- 
tude existed in Christian dogs. 

Jasper proceeded to state that he had about him a small 
amount of money and a trinket or two ; but a sardonic gleam in 
the eyes of the Turks caused him to cast down his own eyes 
and slip a finger under his shirt, when he perceived that 
he had been robbed of all his valuables. 

This was overpowering and ominous; but recovering him- 
self, he responded to the Turk that if he so preferred he would 
at once write to England or to Mauritius for such a sum of money 
as would be a compensation to him for the favors already con- 
ferred and for sending him to the nearest port. 

Ibrahaim, shrewd as a Yankee, retorted that it was not within 
the compass of his intentions to favor any messages which should 
stir up the consuls and ministers of that irascible and unrighteous 
people, the English, and bring on himself the attention of the 
nearest governor. He regarded the two infidels now in his pres- 


A SLEEP-WALKEft. 


130 

ence as a direct gift of Allah to an excellent man named Ibra- 
haim, and said Ibrahaim intended to use his advantages honor- 
ably and wisely, by keeping the two Englishmen busy in 
cultivating silkworms and other fruits of the earth. If they 
chose not to work, it was open to them to starve. In order that 
they need not be tempted to run away, he should tie up their 
feet, and at night they would be locked up in a small room off 
the court. If in any other way they gave him trouble, his serv- 
ant, Yusef, a holy worshiper of Allah, was ready, by the beard 
of the prophet, to clip off their Christian heads. 

The good Ibrahaim concluded his discourse by ordering the 
captives to retire into the aforesaid small room for the day and 
night ; and the next morning they should begin to accomplish 
the end of their existence by going to work for him. 

Jasper Fitzroy, communicating below his breath some of these 
highly satisfactory remarks, during their progress, to Sam Porter, 
Sam proposed the only way he saw out of the difficulty. 

“ Don’t let ’sstop with the heathen,” said Sam. “ Let us make 
a spring at them sudden. I ’ll throttle the man, and you, sir, try 
your hand on the master. We can squeeze the life out of their 
throats in five minutes, and then we ’ll run for it and find a port 
ourselves. ” 

“Impossible, Sam,” said Jasper. “The house is full of serv- 
ants, and the country swarms with Turks. We should be pur- 
sued and murdered within two hours.” 

But Jasper Fitzroy, after that, saw a great many days when he 
heartily regretted that he had not taken Sam’s advice and reached 
a speedy ending of his miseries. Having been thrust into the 
little room indicated, a seven-by-ten dungeon, lighted by a grat- 
ing high up, Jasper and Sam for a time stared mutely at each 
other. 

“Here’s a dreadful go!” said Sam, finally. “In four-and- 
twenty hours we ’ve been wrecked and made slaves.” 

“ The worst of it is that we do not know where we are, and this 
old miser has robbed us,” said Fitzroy. 

“Well, sir, I, for one, won’t raise his worms and his aly- 
inonds ,” said Sam. 

“The best we can do, Sam,” replied Jasper, “will be to do 
the work as well as we know how and make no complaints. By 
that means we may throw these scoundrels off their guard. As 


A. PAIR OF CHRISTIAN DOGS. 


131 

I understand something of their language, I may overhear, or by 
unexpected questions, discover where we are — and then how to 
escape. Never say die, Sam ! My good fellow, I mean to get 
to England again.” 

The two were silent a long time. Each brain was busy ; Sam’s 
not practically. 

At last he developed his teeming ideas. 

“ I overhauled a book on board ship, sir, full of wonder stories 
about these parts. It said, sir, as there was a big bird called a 
roc, so big as you could tie your handkercher to its leg and hang 
on, and it could carry you clear aw.ay over seas. We might get 
sight of such, sir, some day at our work, and you, sir — you might 
go off with it, and then you could send from England or some 
civilized country for me.” 

“ Thank you, Sam ; but there is no such bird. That was all a 
story.” 

“ Oh, I hope not, sir,” said Sam. “But the book said there 
were places round here where diamonds as big as your fist, shin- 
ing like stars, were to be found. Now, if we found one or two 
of them, why, we might buy ourselves off from this old beast.” 

“ I ’m afraid he ’d keep us and the diamonds too,” said Jasper. 
“ But that diamond story is also a mere make-up.” 

“Well, / think it’s right-down wicked to make up stories 
just to deceive honest folk; don’t you, sir? It is no more nor 
less than out-an’-out lying, sir, and it ought to be a’ offense in 
court,” cried Sam, much heated against the romancers. “But 
then, sir, there is another thing that isn’t a make-up, sir. You 
know in all the stories of true heart-of-oak Britons getting carried 
' off by Turks and set to work like slaves, for all the song goes : 

“ * Britons never will be slaves, 

And Britannia rules the waves. 

“Why, it tells about their getting into a Turk’s house with a 
court and mats and coffee-cups, just like this, sir ; and the gar- 
dens of alymonds and pomegranates, just as ’t is here, sir. So that ’s 
true. And the Turk always has a daughter with eyes like stars 
and a vail and a little mite of a hand, and she falls in love with the 
prisoner. That would be you, sir; and she tells him where the 
port is, and she gets money and jewels from the Old Beast, sir,” 
cried Sam, venomously; “and she sets the Briton free, and they 


132 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


fly, sir, and he gets to England. So we might depend on that, sir, 
if you 5 11 keep a sharp eye for the young lady, as you know their 
lingo, which must have been taught them by Satan himself. 
And if you cannot make up your mind to marrying the young 
lady, you might leave her behind when it comes to that.” 

Sam Porter proposed this cold-blooded iniquity toward the 
apocryphal daughter , as feeling that a child of his aforesaid Old 
Beast was quite out of the pale of ordinary courtesies. 

“There’s not likely to be a friendly daughter in this case, 
Sam,” said the unhappy Jasper. “And if there was I couldn’t 
make love to her, for there is only one woman on earth whom I 
can love or marry, and that is Miss Barth.” 

“I’m dreadful sorry, then, for both of you, sir,” said Sam, 
gloomily, “ for you two ’ll never meet no more, in so much as we 
must lay our bones in this place.” Having uttered which wretched 
prediction poor Sam turned his face to the corner of the wall 
and set about groaning heavily. 

Jasper, after a profound meditation, began to pick at the brick 
on the floor with a nail which he had pulled from the wall. He 
finally found a loose one. He then turned down the waistband 
of his trousers, and with the aid of the nail ripped loose a bit of 
the lining and drew out a number of Bank of England notes folded 
flat. 

These, of course, were soaking wet, as Jasper had been for 
a number of hours in the water up over his waist. As he gently 
unfolded the notes the outer ones proved to be ruined beyond 
recognition by the water, crumbling to pieces with all their print- 
ing soaked out of them. The innermost note, however — one for 
five pounds — was in a better condition. Jasper blew on it to dry 
it, released it gently from the crumbling pulp, and as it grew 
drier and firmer he smoothed it with his fingers. 

Sam had turned about to watch the process. 

“ That won’t do us much good,” he suggested. 

“ It depends on how it is used,” said Fitzroy. “And, as to 
that, I have not yet quite made up my mind.” 

He then tore out a bit of his waistband lining and folded it 
over the note for its protection, scooped a hollow in the dry 
earth under the loose brick, laid the note therein, covered it with 
dust, laid back the brick, and not only counted its number from 
the wall on each side, but marked it with a cross. 


a pair of Christian dogs. 133 

“ That note,” he said to Sam, “ is the only thing vve have to 
depend on for freedom, and I must be careful how I use it.” 

At night the two prisoners were called out into the court, re- 
ceived each a black crust of barley-bread and a handful of dates 
with a draught of water, and informed, with the aid of many 
uncivil names, by Yusef, that the next morning early they should 
go to work. 

The next morning, at the summons, “ Come, Christian dogs !” 
they emerged from their room, and Yusef having fastened their 
ankles with small chains, which rendered it impossible for them 
to go fast or far, drove them into a court where a dozen or more 
slaves, chiefly Nubians, were getting a breakfast of black beans 
boiled to a porridge. These slaves raised their own food in cor- 
ners of the estate, by working over hours, and they lowered 
blackly when required to share it with two strangers who had not 
worked for it as they had. However, when Fitzroy informed them 
in Arabic that he was a shipwrecked Englishman, the largest 
Nubian relented, and with a whisper that the arm of England 
was a long one, and given to pouncing upon her subjects in un- 
expected places, he divided the porridge with the strangers. 

Jasper Fitzroy had had hired coolies working for himself in the 
very employment now assigned to him. He knew the best meth- 
ods of labor in silk, almonds, pomegranates and olives. He set 
himself to make Sam peaceable and himself popular : also to gain 
what information he could in regard to his new position. 

He learned that Master Ibrahaim was divided between two 
passions — greed and Mohammedan fanaticism ; that the place 
where he was living was in Asia Minor, on the Gulf of Adalia. 

Then he knew that there was on the mainland no English con- 
sul nearer than Smyrna. 

He found, also, that Master Ibrahaim, by judiciously admin- 
istered gifts to those in power, held his own way, transgressed laws, 
if laws they were, and observed only such regulations as were 
made for the prosperity of all true believers, and the confusion of 
Christian dogs and infidels. 


134 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


CHAPTER XV. 

TONY PETTIGREW TO THE RESCUE. 

Jasper Fitzroy and his henchman Sam nursed the silkworms of 
Ibrahaim Ben Edin. They toiled in his almond orchard and 
pomegranate gardens, and pounded his olives into oil, suffering 
the exactions and abuse of Yusef — and slowly learning the true 
inwardness of Yusef and his master. 

Meanwhile affairs at Barth House had arrived at monotony. 

This monotony was varied by the complaining of Wrigley, by 
the begging and fretting of Mrs. Wrigley, by the growth of 
Rupert, little Mi and Natolie, daughter of the Contessa Idria. 

Between the contessa and Lady Bidebank an intimacy had 
sprung up, which favored the friendship of the children. Rupert 
devoted himself to Natolie, heart and soul. His adoration made 
him reverent and reticent. He never told Natolie as he had told 
Mi that when he was grown up he should marry her ; he never 
ordered her to mind him ; he never made plans for banishing 
mutton from their joint table. But at Natolie’s shrine he laid 
himself and all that he possessed and Mi also. He rose early of 
mornings, and carried bouquets — of which he had plundered 
Lady Bidebank’s hot-houses — and he tied them to the knocker 
on the door of Bidebank Lodge. The best of all his fruits and 
bonbons he also carried and laid at the door, directed in boyish 
scrawl to Natolie. In fact the servants of the contessa learned to 
be careful how they opened that front-door, for they were almost 
sure to fall into some offering placed there for their young lady. 
Rupert also wrote effusions, which, the first letter of each line 
being a capital, were supposed to be poetry, and dedicated them 
to Natolie. 

He pounded the youngest footman also one day because that 
functionary had ventured an opinion that the little foreign miss 
was not so nice as Miss Mi. 

For at that period of her history, it must be confessed that the 
adored Natolie had much of that splendid self-assertion which 
had distinguished that royal vixen, Elizabeth Tudor, and conse- 
quently she was rather an aggravation to servants. 

Sir Rupert also thought it essential to his love-making that, 


TONY PETTIGREW TO THE RESCUE. 


135 


like a knight of old time, he should go forth in search of diffi- 
culties ; the trouble being that he dragged his too venturesome 
lady-love along with him. 

Thus, escorting the two little maidens, he made one of his ex- 
cursions to the Reservoir, and pushing off the very boat in which 
the two policemen had once searched for his own little body, he 
undertook a voyage which might have resulted more disastrously 
than his first had not Timmy Titlow, who had by this time 
learned to swim, put out boldly from the bank, and rescued Sir 
Rupert from a watery grave, he having gone down in the very 
spot where he had once been tossed. This act of Timmy’s 
cemented a certain friendship between himself and Sir Rupert. 

On another occasion our young gentleman persuaded Natolie 
and Mi to set off with him in search of adventures. He had 
unluckily heard Myra reading one day to Lady Bidebank Tenny- 
son’s “ Sleeping Beauty.” The harmony of the poet’s numbers 
fascinated the youth, and reading it for himself he dreamed 
himself into the lucky prince, and Natolie into the enchanted 
lady, whose 

“ Constant beauty doth inform 
Stillness with love, and day with night.” 

And as the “ happy princess,” with her lover’s arm around her 
waist, had departed, 

“ And far across the hills they went, 

In that new world which is the old,” 

Rupert and his little damsels took their departure for fantastic 
scenes, and having no better place to go, they struck into the 
northwest portion of the Edge ware Road. The summer day was 
fine, and they travelled on, alert for wonders, too happy to get 
weary, and after several miles’ walk they fell upon a little hamlet, 
and Sir Rupert treated them all to buns and glasses of milk. 
Coming from the shop where they had enjoyed this refection they 
heard a brisk voice haranguing, and saw a little throng of chil- 
dren, field laborers, and cottage women with babes in their arms, 
around a travelling-showman. 

The exhibitor had a box, vailed, and with several magnifying- 
glasses set in the side ; into these he requested his audience to 
look, and he then fluently discoursed of the wonders revealed. 

When we say that this wandering son of science was no other 


136 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


than Tony Pettigrew, it will not be doubted that words, at least, 
were not wanting to him. 

The keen eye of Tony lit on the three runaway children, and 
though he recognized none of them, he perceived at once their 
rank in life, and proceeded according to his lights. Sixpence 
must be in their small pockets — his rustic admirers doled out 
half-pence. 

“Let the little lord and two ladies come nigher,” cried Tony. 
“ When little quality comes to visit us let ’s act like we appre- 
ciated the condescension. Step up here, my noble little lord, 
and my little r’yal princesses of ladies. Now just you cast your 
pretty little eyes in at that there glass, and wot you see is cheese 
mites. You ’ll observe that them ’s as big as black beetles, and 
them ’s wot you heat by ’undreds whenever you indulges in old 
cheese.” 

“Bah!” said Rupert, disgusted. “We’ll never eat any more 
cheese, will we, girls ?” 

“ No ; we ’ll eat cake and blanc-mange,” said Natolie. 

“ Look there through that next glass,” continued Tony, “an’ 
wot you see is King John a-signing of Magner Charter, whereby 
he states distinctly that Britons never will be slaves, and that 
Napoleyon Bonyparte could never whip ’arts of hoak. 

“Just cast your eye, my noble lord and little ladies, into that 
there next glass. Under that said glass there is a flea — a living 
one. Shake the hobject-glass, sirs, and you’ll see him kick out 
his legs quite distinct, and the size of a lobster. Now look 
there, the other and last glass, noble sir, of this exhibition, and 
tho’ it ain’t no bigger nor a pin’s head, you ’ll see and make 
out the Death o’ Nelson quite plain, with all his hofflcers around 
him.” 

The exhibition over, Natolie began to look ruefully at the 
descending sun, and Mi, with tears, declared that she wanted to 
go home. 

Rupert reluctantly consented to turn back by the way along 
which they had come ; and Tony said, as they were going toward 
London, he would bear them company. 

At this offer some of the rustics, who little esteemed peripatetic 
men of science, shook their heads, and a stout young fellow 
remarked that he, too, was going on the road to London and 
would join the party. The unwonted walk had begun to tell on 


TONY PETTIGREW TO THE RESCUE. 


137 


the spirits of the little girls, and they lagged along slowly, and soon 
agreed to the countryman’s offer to carry them by turns. As he 
carried one little miss and conformed his pose to the weary steps 
of the other, they were some little distance behind Tony and 
Rupert. 

Ri^pert lost all sense of fatigue in the joys of Tony Pettigrew’s 
conversation. 

Rupert having stated that his name was Bidebank, Tony at 
once recognized him as the child Lady Bidebank had adopted 
and of whom Doctor Wrigley was so anxious to be rid. Who 
this child was, Tony did not know, but in his mind he connected 
him with the missing heir of Barth, about whom he had told so 
many falsehoods at the doctor’s order. As he walked on, drawing 
out Rupert about his family and friends, it occurred to Tony to 
try to connect the boy with the lost baby, and make capital by 
restoring him to his true home. Still Tony knew that several 
links in the chain of evidence were lacking, and he feared to 
array himself against Doctor Wrigley, whom he credited with 
diabolical acuteness and resolution. Holding this idea in abey- 
ance, Tony began to discourse to Rupert on the joys of a wander- 
ing life. He depicted life as one long, care-free succession of 
sunny hours, birds, flowers, green hedges, flowing streams — all 
the romance and adventure that are ideals of the boy mind. 
Rupert listened, entranced. 

“It may all be werry nice,” said Mr. Pettigrew, waving his 
left arm in the air, as his right grasped the strap whereby his 
“ scientific apparatus ” was bound on his back — “werry nice to 
live in a ’ouse, to ’ave flunkeys to wait on yer, to live on the fat 
o’ the land, not to mention roast duck an’ furrin fruits; but wot 
is it, after all, to moving free and easy as yer own master, camp- 
in’ under hedges as merry as a grass-hopper, and makin’ friends 
with every one as comes ’andy ? To ride on a little pony an’ 
have a groom ridin’ at yer ’eels — w’y, it’s genteel; but wot is 
genteel compared along of freedum ? A boy of your inches is 
truly free when he ’as no misses nor tutor to hanker arter ’im. 
When he can put ’is bundle on the fur end o’ a stick an’ can 
tramp off whistlin’ like a blackbird, then he knows wot freedum 
is. Yes, my noble little lord, mebbe I might ’ave been genteel , 
too, and ’ave ’ad flunkeys an’ nussmaids — ” 

“ You !” interrupted Sir Rupert. “ You! Were you rich ?” 


138 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ I said ‘ mebbef sir,” responded Tony, sulkily, “ I said 1 mebbef 
and when a man says ‘mebbe,’ w’y it means a mental reserva- 
tion, it do, an’ that man at least ought ter be allowed to finish 
’is sentence without bein’ pitched into.” 

Having given this amiable exhibition of the bland tempers of 
tramping freemen, Tony strode on, chewing a piece of stra\^. 

When he might have relapsed into good humor cannot be told, 
for at that moment a carriage drove up, and from it looked out 
Myra Barth. She and Mrs. Bidebank and the contessa were all 
driving by different roads to find the strays. 

Having given the swain who was helping the little girls a 
guinea and Tony a look which suggested recognition and pre- 
vented his entering the city by daylight, Myra gathered up her 
little renegades and ordered the coachman to hasten home. 

“ I shall get you a governess forthwith,” said Myra to her gen- 
tle god-child and namesake. ‘‘You are running quite wild.” 

“ My dearest angel,” quoth the Contessa Idria to her only 
daughter, “you really must stop playing with that naughty little 
English bov. He is quite unlike his dear mamma, Lady Bide- 
bank, and will surely lead you into great difficulties. I have had 
much trouble on his account already, and I feel sure I shall have 
much more.” 

Wherein the contessa forecast her future better than she knew, 
for deep indeed were the waters of trouble in which she and 
Natolie were destined to wade because of Sir Rupert. 

Lady Bidebank regarded her adopted son as a staid hen might 
regard a venturesome duckling which, having reared from the 
egg, she beholds taking surprisingly to the water. 

“I shall send you to Eton next month, Rupert,” she said. 
“ Miss Barth has sent Doctor Wrigley’s son there, and he is now 
first-form boy, and I shall ask him to be friendly to you. You 
are getting quite too reckless.” 

That night Rupert looked moodily out of his window at the 
stars and thought how lovely it would be to be roaming gallantly 
about the country, pilgrim of the moon, like young Endymion, 
and with no Eton looming threateningly in the future. 

Mr. Tony Pettigrew having quailed under Miss Barth’s keen 
look, when she took the children into her own charge, deflected 
from the straight road to London, and stopping at sundown at a 
little hamlet, proceeded to give a “ scientific exhibition,” the pro- 


TONY PETTIGREW TO THE RESCUE. 


139 


ceeds of which would presently be spent at the village inn for 
bed and board and — brandy. When Tony had triumphantly 
wound up with the “death of Nelson and ail his crew gathered 
about him,” and was looking about for applause, he was sud- 
denly confronted by a vigorous tramp woman, carrying on her 
back a huge but light load of wicker work, and supported by a 
sturdy little boy, who scintillated like a knight of old in an armor 
of shining tins, plates, cups, pans, ladles, hanging about him. 

“And is it you, Tony Pettigrew,” cried the woman, “setting 
up for a man of science and making speeches up and down the 
country-side? Well it would be for you if your science taught 
you not to desert your natural wife and your lawful child ! You 
sees in them there glasses, sez you, a flea as big as lobsters ! 
And did you see anything of your wife in them same glasses, 
tramping up and down with wicker-work for her daily bread? 
You sees King John, sez you, and Nelson as is a-dyin’. Tears 
to me, Tony Pettigrew, it would be nigher to the p’int if you saw 
yer own son, as is loaded down like a young elephant with tin 
pans !” 

At this pathetic introduction of himself, the boy thrust — not 
too near her eyes — a pair of hands buried in pint measures, and 
began to bellow like a bull of Bashan. 

“Yes,” cried the woman to the gaping crowd, “yes, that 
science man , who sees cheese mites as big as beetles, he sez , 
though I don’t believe it, he deserted his wife and child afore 
ever the child was born, and broke his bail, with a order of court 
on him, too.” 

“ Come, woman, hold up !” cried Tony, who had been too 
amazed to speak. “Stop your noise, and wind up that boy 
somehow. If it suits you and him any to come around the coun- 
try along of me, why, I ’m agreeable, and if you ’ll keep the 
peace, I *m not above buying a donkey and a cart, and you can 
load your wares in that.” 

“ That ’s fair— come now !” cried the admiring group. 

Thus Tony Pettigrew, from being a “ solitary traveller,” sud- 
denly became a caravan. 

Tony’s load might have looked mightily attractive to Sir 
Rupert, seen under the glamour of foolish fancy. It would also 
have been envied by Jasper Fitzroy and Sam, toiling in hope- 
less captivity to Ibrahaim Ben Edin. 


140 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


Month after month of that captivity wore away, while Tony 
Pettigrew tramped, while Natolie and Mi studied, while Sir 
Rupert worked and boated and batted at Eton, and while Myra 
seemed unexpectedly to possess the touch of Midas and turn all 
things to gold ; for her fortunes grew in a way to turn Doctor 
Wriglev frantic with envy and greed, and to cause him to wish 
the heiress dead. 

Jasper Fitzroy had been a year in slavery before he could prop- 
erly locate himself or make any plans for his own rescue. 

Sam Porter was deeply chagrined to find that on the estates of 
Ibrahaim could be found neither daughter nor harem, so that all 
help of salvation from woman’s pity was done away. The shrill 
and withered Ibrahaim and his like-minded servant Yusef lived 
only for one passion — gain. 

At the end of the year Ibrahaim fell very ill. Taken suddenly 
in the night, he seemed likely to die on the spot, and Yusef woke 
Jasper with a furious shake, crying: 

“ Dog of an Englishman, my master dies ! Come, heal him !” 

“ I am no physician,” replied Jasper. But Yusef, holding him 
by one arm and Sam by the other, dragged them to the room 
where Ibrahaim lay groaning with fear and pain. 

“ Send for a physician. I know nothing,” said Jasper. 

“ There is none near. You must know something ; you infi- 
dels are wiser than Sheytan,” retorted Yusef. “ Cure my master, 
or I will hew off your heads !” 

“ Hew ’em off!” cried Sam, who h^d learned a little of the 
language, which he firmly believed had been invented in Hades. 
“ Our heads are little comfort to us in your country.” 

“ Eldest born of destruction,” roared Yusef to Jasper, “cure 
my master, or you and this dog’s head, your servant, shall be 
sent to Smyrna !” 

“ Will you forward us to the British consul, if I cure you ?” de- 
manded Jasper of Ibrahaim. 

“Yes, son of Sheytan, by the beard of the prophet !” 

“ Don’t do it,” quoth Sam ; “ let him die. He ’ll lie if he gets 
well, for lying was born in the beast. Let him die, and poison the 
other one if you can.” 

“Fie,” said Jasper; “you would be kinder than your words 
yourself, Sam. Humanity forces me to help him, and perhaps, 
he will keep his word.” 


TONY PETTIGREW TO THE RESCUE. 141 

Jasper accordingly began to use his common sense, and such 
simple remedies as that genius suggested. For twenty-four 
hours he worked over Ibrahaim as a man for a brother. 

Then Ibrahaim was out of pain, out of danger, out of fear 
and out of gratitude. 

For as Egypt’s chief butler, being restored to liberty, no more 
remembered Joseph, but forgot him, so this son of the prophet, 
as soon as he felt better, forgot all his vows and especially that 
there was a British consul at Smyrna. 

“I have cured you,” said Jasper to his enemy, “and you 
promised to send me, with my servant, to the nearest consul.” 

“Child of Hades!” cried Ibrahaim. “Far be it from me to 
remember, in sound mind, the ravings of disease.” 

“But I cured you, and gratitude should compel you to let me 
go.” 

“Gratitude is a weakly herb, which only grows in the soil of 
infidel souls,” said the Turk. 

“ But you promised me liberty as the price of cure.” 

“ Perish the thought that I should let you go !” Ibrahaim cried. 
“ Suppose I fall ill again, what should I do? Moreover, it would 
be sinful in the extreme for me to let loose a man possessed of 
such diabolical skill to cure English demons.” 

“ I told you so,” said Sam. “ Why not have let him die?” 

Shortly after the recovery of Ibrahaim, Jasper, one day, found 
a bird’s wing feather, which he carefully preserved. Securing, 
some days after, a bit of brass wire, he rubbed it to a needle- 
like point, and put it in this quill for a pen-point. During Ibra- 
haim’s illness, Jasper had taken from his room a small, power- 
ful magnifying glass. 

As he and Sam were soon after working alone in a corner of 
the pomegranate orchard, Jasper told Sam to stand on guard 
and give notice if any one came near. He then took from his 
bosom the long-hidden banknote, and spreading it smoothly on 
a stone, he cut a little gash in his wrist, and using the little pen 
which he had made, and taking his blood for ink, he wrote on 
the margin of the note : 

“Jasper Fitzroy, of Fitzroy Towers, Middlesex, England, captive to 
Ibrahaim Ben Edin on G. of Adalia. Rescue, for God’s sake !” 

This writing, done under the magnifying glass with the wire 


142 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


point, showed to the naked eye only irregular red lines along one 
edge of the paper. 

Waiting a few days longer, Jasper, one morning, coolly offered 
the note to Ibrahaim. 

“Oh, accursed of Allah, what is this morsel of infidel paper?” 
demanded the Turk. 

“ It is worth five pieces of English gold,” said Jasper, calmly. 
“ Any ship’s captain or merchant will give that for it. I desire 
you to use it to buy some clothes for myself and my servant.” 

“ Since when did the wise man become a fool ?” said the Nu- 
bian in Jasper’s ear. “ He will bring you nothing for your 
money.” 

“Alas, Mr. Fitzroy,” lamented Sam, on the other side, “now 
our hope is gone, and we have nothing to look to.” 

But now Jasper felt that he had sent a messenger to England. 
A cry for help had sounded from him to the outer world. He 
counted the months when he might hope that bit of paper would 
reach England. Then how soon would some curious person 
examine those faint red lines of blood. And then, how long be- 
fore that cry should be answered by rescue ! A year — said Jasper 
— possibly within a year. 

But Ibrahaim was wary as a serpent, and he distrusted the 
freely-given English note. Two years that note lay in the strong- 
box of that worshiper of the prophet, Ibrahaim Ben Edin. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

SIR RUPERT STRIKES FOR FREEDOM. 

One of the chief occupations of James Wrigley’s life was to 
haunt the Barth and Fitzroy estates, searching every nook and 
corner, examining the buildings to see if there were any neglects, 
spying if any timber were cut down, and looking over the bailiff’s 
accounts, anxious to know whether leases disadvantageous to the 
next heir were being granted. 

Wrigley began to tremble lest she should bar his expectations 
by summoning some eligible bachelor to come and marry her. 

But nothing was farther than marriage from Miss Barth’s 
thoughts, when the first ebullitions of rage had subsided. 


SIR rupert Strikes for freedom. 


143 


“I have had a battle with my cousin Wrigley,” she would 
say to her only intimate friend, Lady Bidebank. “ We fought 
furiously this morning, and now, having mutually withdrawn 
from the field, eying each other malignly, I am expecting Mrs. 
Wrigley in the character of a truce-maker waving the white flag 
of her wearisome platitudes. Sometimes I wonder whether it 
would be any more degrading and vexatious to marry entirely 
without love, and, indeed, with reluctance, than it is to endure 
the continued interference of ‘my cousin.’ ” 

And, possibly, at this very moment, Mrs. W. would appear, fat, 
gorgeously dressed, florid, with an uncertain, tremulous mouth 
and pale-blue eyes, to tell Myra that she hoped to be forgiven 
for having allowed her daughter Jane to change her music 
teacher without consulting her ; that she was very unhappy be- 
cause Betty had bought a blue gown and Miss Barth did not 
admire light blue ; and she hoped Miss Barth approved of the 
dear boys making the acquaintance of Fred So-and-so. 

The wife, with her fawning, was about as heavy on the heiress 
as the husband with his bullying. 

It chanced one day that Wrigley, pursuing his system of 
espionage, descried from far Miss Barth and Lady Bidebank 
sitting on a rustic bench in close conversation. Wrigley always 
trembled when he thought of the intercourse between these two, 
one of whom had in keeping Sir Rupert, and the other wanting 
to find him. Some intellectual spark might be struck out of their 
converse which would light up the mystery. 

He stole softly from tree to tree, by various detours coming 
closer to the two, until, unseen, he was within hearing. 

The gravity of the two faces had alarmed him ; the words which 
he heard were still more suggestive of danger. 

“I have not been deceived,” said Lady Bidebank. “My 
death, sooner or later, will come suddenly, and it is as likely to 
come soon. My anxiety is for Rupert. The boy is very dear to 
me, and I tremble for him, left early without a mother’s influ- 
ence. Lord Bidebank’s family have always been polite to him, 
but their feelings are tempered by the fact that he will inherit 
thirty thousand pounds of my private property, which else would 
have gone to them.” 

“There is no need, dear friend,” replied Myra, “that you 
should be troubled on account of Rupert. He is a fine boy. I 


144 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


love him better than any other living being. I have influence 
over him. If you are taken away while he is yet young I will 
receive him into my family and be a mother to him. You can 
appoint me. conjointly with Lord Bidebank, his guardian, and 
request that he shall remain at my house.” 

“ Thanks ! Thanks ! I will do so — but, Myra, I have not yet 
made my will.” 

“ That is leaving affairs in a dangerous condition,” said Myra, 
anxiously. 

“ It is superstition,” said Lady Bidebank. “ I dreamed once 
that just as I had signed my will I fell back dead, and I have 
foolishly shrunk from making a will. I will conquer that folly. 
But however and whenever I die, you will take my Rupert into 
your own home ?” 

“I will,” said Myra, earnestly. 

“ Not if /can hinder it !” whispered Doctor Wrigley. 

It had been to him significant of disaster that this boy had come 
to be so familiar with his own home, and that Lady Bidebank 
had had him baptized by the very name which his own mother 
had given him. That he should now become an inmate of his 
own house, and the ward of his sister, would prove the signal of 
ruin to Doctor Wriglev’s plans. He would never, he felt sure, 
be able to dispossess him. 

Rupert was now a lad of thirteen, and at Eton, doing himself 
credit. He would soon return home for the holidays. 

At this crisis Wrigley summoned Tony Pettigrew, and took 
counsel with him. 

Rupert had hardly returned from school when a stalwart um- 
brella-vendor — a keen-eyed tramp — with a slouched hat and a 
flaming red kerchief at his neck, began to haunt the neighbor- 
hood. 

The lads of several estates had a cricket-ground on the road to 
the Reservoir, and about this place the umbrella-man might be 
seen watching the game. One day he leaned over and beckoned 
one of the lads. 

“ Which are young Bidebank?” he asked, knowing well. 

“Yonder; the black-eyed fellow with the curls.” 

“Eh! Cur’ous ’bout him, ain’t it, now?” 

“Why— what is curious?” 

“ His bein’ a ’doption, an’ all that there.” 


SIR RUPERT STRIKES FOR FREEDOM. 


145 


11 A what V 1 

“A ’doption — not her ladyship’s own, you know; ’dopted.” 

“ Bah ! That ’s not so.” 

“ Oh, yes, it are ! Why, I knew all ’bout it years ago. I thought 
you knew it. Never mind ; don’t tell.” 

Then again another boy he interviewed. 

“ Say, noble little sir, do young Bidebank know he are ’dopted ? 
Do he ever speak o’ it ?” 

“ Why, pshaw ! He ’s not.” 

“ Bless my eyes! You don’t know it? Ask young Wrigley; 
he knows. But there ; don’t mention of it. I don’t like to talk 
of my betters.” 

About this time the junior Wrigleys came also into possession 
of this secret, being the hearers of certain remarks made casu- 
ally at table by their father, who clinched his observations with 
the words : 

“There ! It is no concern of ours if they are suited.” 

Naturally, as this information was disseminated, there began 
to be looks askance and suggestive hints and curious questions, 
which by degrees stirred the mind of Rupert to a vague alarm 
and unrest. 

Just now he formed a new acquaintance — a fellow who lounged 
about the woods — full of the most wonderful knowledge of fish- 
ing and of rabbit snares, of bird-traps, of singular stories of 
dreams and signs, of goblins and adventures. Rupert fell in 
with him now and again. Insensibly he saw more and more of 
him. The man was respectful and full of entertaining and in- 
cessant talk. 

“And you like stylish life and servants and fine clothes and 
the big school and the ’nstocracy, eh ?” 

“ Why shouldn’t I ?” said Rupert. “ I ’ve always known it.” 

“ And you like it better than the free and wandering life you 
might have had if so be you had been let alone?” 

“ How let alone?” asked Rupert. 

“ Why, my lad, if her ladyship hadn’t ’dopted of you.” 

“ Adopted ! I don’t know what you mean.” 

“ Come, now,” said the disguised Tony, cutting carefully at an 
arrow for a crossbow; “ you don’t mean to tell me that you ain’t 
a ’dopted son ?” 

“I’m not adopted ; I ’m her own,” cried Rupert, hotly. 


146 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ Oh, well, think so if you likes. I don’t care to tell all I know. 
But, mind you, I do know. Why, all the boys round here know 
— all but you. But I sha’ n’t say nothink. For all I knows you 
may be one of those little gents as runs and tells everything to 
his ma.” 

“Tell me what you know — all you know. You shall speak. 
Come, I ’ll give you my best six-bladed, pearl-handled knife,” 
cried Rupert, laying the treasure in question on Tony’s knee. 
“ I don’t repeat things.” 

“Oh, what I know ain’t nothin’ pertic’lar, only you ain’t her 
born child. She never had no child, ’cept some as died, and 
she ’dopted you; and — that ’s all.” 

“ Oh, it isn’t so ! It isn’t so !” cried Rupert, choking. 

“ Vy, come, boy,” said Tony, coolly; “are you a nat’ral ? 
How long ’as Lord Bidebank been dead ! Vy, sixteen years, and 
you ain’t fourteen — Lord ! And don’t own children inherit the 
property? Well, now, who is goin’ to inherit Bidebank Hail? 
You?” 

“ No,” said Rupert, slowly. “ This Lord Bidebank’s son.” 

“ Oh ! And this Lord Bidebank ain’t the last one’s son. No, 
he’s a cousin. If you was the son, sez I, vy, you ’d get the 
estate. Will you be Lord Bidebank ?” 

“ I don’t know — I s’pose so.” 

“ If you was to be that, you ’d be that now. Didn’t you never 
see luds your age ? No — no — it’s ’cause you ’re ’dopted. Vy, I 
knows all about you.” 

“Then you know what sort of a family I came from ?” cried 
poor Rupert, madly. 

“ So I does. As the books say — poor but decent parents — 
vy, folks like me — ” 

“ I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it,” he cried. 

“Then don’t — only it’s so,” said Tony, shaping a second 
arrow. “ What ’s the need o’ taking it to heart ? Sure enough, 
her ladyship may get tired of you. I s’pose she has, and 
that’s why she sent you off to school. She got you when 
you was little for a plaything, an’ you ’ve got too big for that. 
Stands to reason, she may begin to feel somewhat ashamed of 
your poor parents, and you can’t ask a lady to love adoption like 
her own. You oughter be werry grateful as she don’t clear you 
out — ” 


SIR RUPERT STRIKES FOR FREEDOM. I47 

Rupert sprang up and rushed away. 

But the dagger was fastened in his soul. Each hour the pain 
and horror of the situation grew greater. In love and mistaken 
judgment, Lady Bidebank had withheld from Rupert the story 
of his infancy. She intended, when manlier wisdom came to 
him, to tell him that he was not her own child, but dearly loved, 
and the joy and comfort of her life. 

Every look, act and word engendered suspicion. Was he 
denied anything? Was he reproved? Was Lady Bidebank, in 
her failing health, less cheery than of yore? Poor Rupert 
attributed it all to lack of love for him. He accused himself of 
being a care, a burden to her. He questioned the boys, his 
playmates, and they looked strangely, and confessed that they 
had heard “something queer.” Then he went with them no 
more. Wandering alone, as was now his wont, he met Timmy 
Titlow. Him he questioned. 

“Timmy, upon your soul and honor, do you know if I am an 
adopted child?” 

“ Who told you that ?” cried Timmy. 

“Am I?” 

“ Well what if you are?” asked Timmy. 

“Tell me the truth — the whole truth — or — or I’ll go jump in 
the reservoir.” 

“Well, come now,” said Timmy, soothingly. “It is true you 
are not her ladyship’s own son, but she loves you none the less 
for that. And, my young gentleman, you owes her none the less 
along o’ that. Your own parents was none to blush for; they was 
hard- wording and ’onest too.” 

“ Who were they?” shouted Rupert. “ Did I ever see them ?” 

“Well, one you did. Don’t you mind her, sir? Such a nice 
old woman, come with me to Bidebank Hall a long time ago ? 
From Paddington Almshouse. She’s nurse there, sir, is Dame 
Chitton, an’ well thought of.” 

“ From an almshouse !” roared the young aristocrat. “You 
lie — you lie ! She ’s not my mother.” 

“ No more she is, sir ; but I speak truth— she is your grand- 
mother. Your mother being her daughter. And, sir, your 
mother died with you in her arms. And your father, poor fellow, 
was lost or kidnaped or seized somehow, and Doctor Wrigley 
got you with Lady Bidebank. Doctor Wrigley is not a man as I 


I4& 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


takes to,” said Timmy, truthfully; “but there he acted well. 
Your father used to be his servant.” 

Oh, horrors! Oh, tortures ! Timmy little knew the agony he 
was forcing on this little lordling. His father a servant man — 
Doctor Wrigley’s servant ! He gave a mad cry, and rushing 
away hid himself deep in Bidebank woods — where he cowered in 
the shade all day, suffering unspeakable anguish. 

These low people were in a conspiracy to torment him. He 
bounded from the ground where he had been lying on his face 
and dashed off home to put the question to her ladyship. Lady 
Bidebank saw Rupert coming near, and smilingly beckoned him 
to her. 

“Have you had a nice time all day, my dear?” 

“No !” cried Rupert. “ I ’ve had a horrid time ! Say, when I 
am grown up, will I be Lord Bidebank ?” 

“No, my dear,” said her ladyship, quietly. 

“ Will I own all this estate and the Hall?” 

“My dear child, what are you talking about? You know that 
Lord Bidebank and his son will have this. But you will have 
plenty. You will live here as long as I do, and then you will 
have my money — thirty thousand pounds. Don’t get fond of 
money, Rupert.” 

“Why was I named Rupert Barth?” persisted the boy. 

“ My dear friend, Lady Barth, desired it,” said the lady. 

“And why, if I am your son, shall I not be Lord Bidebank of 
Bidebank Hall ?” urged the unhappy boy, the tearful look in 
his dark eyes growing deeper. “ Say, am I your son ?” 

“ Rupert !” She drew him toward her. 

“ Am I your son V ’ he reiterated, angrily. 

“ Dear child, who has been talking to you ? I did no* wish 
this to come to your ears until you were grown up, and until 
you were old enough to understand all about it, and how much I 
love you.” 

“ Then I am not your son,” gasped poor Rupert. “ Did Doc- 
tor Wrigley — I hate, hate , hate the man — give me to you?” 

“ No, he did not,” said her ladyship. “And you are the dear 
and only son of my heart.” 

But this horrible revelation was more than the wretched child 
could bear. He gave a cry, wrenched his hand from her lady- 
ship and flew to his own room and locked himself in. The alms- 


SIR RUPERT STRIKES FOR FREEDOM. 


149 


house, Dame Chitton in the open cart, his father a servant to 
Doctor Wrigley — these thoughts corroded in his soul. He felt 
that some great unkindness had been done him. He resented 
the ignorance of his real lot in which he had been left. He felt 
that he could never look any one in the face again. He longed 
to fly from all whom he had ever known. 

Lady Bidebank, greatly distressed by this interview with Ru- 
pert, sent a groom to the city to ask Mr. Mellodew to come to 
her the next morning. She was resolved at once to make her will. 

Early in the morning, Rupert rose and ate his breakfast long 
before Lady Bidebank had left her room. The breakfast eaten, 
he fled to the deepest depths of the Barth woods, and there flung 
himself down in angry and mournful musings. 

Lady Bidebank, finding that Rupert was thus taking matters 
to heart, resolved to propose to him a short trip on the conti- 
nent. Travelling would relieve his mind. 

Having given Mr. Mellodew her instructions for the will, she 
requested him to draw up the instrument at once, and she would 
sign it and have witnesses from the household. She also re- 
quested Mr. Mellodew to return next day and have a talk with 
Rupert. 

While Mr. Mellodew was writing the will, Lady Bidebank 
took a sheet of the same legal paper from the table and wrote 
upon it a letter to Rupert, which letter she designed to place 
where he should find and read it after her death. As she signed 
this, Mr. Mellodew had the will ready to sign, and the witnesses 
were called in. 

Taking up the document as the last witness affixed a signature, 
Lady Bidebank folded it as she had the other and laid from her 
writing-desk two long envelopes. 

Mr. Mellodew, leaning back in his chair, said : 

“ I never see this young gentleman, and realize the comfort 
which your ladyship has had in him, that I do not regret the 
mysterious disappearance of Lady Barth’s infant. What a solace 
he would have been to Miss Barth ! And really, my lady, I am 
no admirer of those Wrigleys.” 

Saying this, Mr. Mellodew picked up the will, inclosed it in an 
envelope, and superscribed it : “ Lady Bidebank’s will, June 12, 
18—.” 

Lady Bidebank took up the other paper, sealed it in the envel- 


i5o 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


ope, and addressed it: “For Rupert. To be read when I am 
dead.” 

“And be sure and come to-morrow, Mr. Mellodew, and try to 
reconcile my dear boy to what cannot be helped.” 

When the lawyer was gone, Lady Bidebank went up to Rupert’s 
room, and opening one of the drawers, took from it, after a little 
consideration, a flat purple-morocco case, lined with white satin 
and fastened with a little gold clasp. This she had given to 
the boy, and now that the novelty of possession was worn off, he 
left it in his drawer. Her ladyship’s monogram was on the outside 
of this case. Inside were merely two long pockets. One of these 
contained a two-pound note ; the other was empty. 

In that empty pocket she laid the envelope which she had 
addressed to the boy. 

“ He will not be likely to look there until some day when I am 
gone, and he takes this up for my sake, and looking into it, he 
will read my last words to him.” Thus saying, she closed the 
drawer. 

An hour later, Mr. Mellodew put in his office strong-box — the 
box marked “ L. Bidebank” — the paper which he had carried 
from Bidebank Hall. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“FREE AND UNFETTERED.” 

When Rupert fled away into the woods on the morning after 
his eclaircissement with Lady Bidebank, he met in solitude a 
tempter — a child of a certain famous tempter whom our mother 
Eve once met in solitary places. 

Indeed, Tony Pettigrew had been looking for Rupert, counting 
shrewdly on just such a frame of mind as that in which he had 
found him. 

Peering through the leafy shelter, Tony beheld his miserable 
victim, and came upon him with the remark : 

“ W’y, my little lud, you looks rayther down in the mouth.” 

“Don’t call me ‘my lord,’” retorted Rupert. “I feel just 
like a pauper. I am a pauper.” 

“W’y, so you is,” returned Tony, with the utmost good 
cheer; “but there’s no use o’ gettin’ down on your luck about 


FREE AND UNFETTERED.” 


u 


151 


that. Paupers is plenty, an’ they just has*to face their own 
music, eh ?” 

“ But I hate it, and I wish I were dead !” screamed Rupert. 

“ All the boys at Eton are of good family, and what will they 
say to me when they find out who I am ?” 

“Sure enough,” said Tony, cordially, “an’ the servants up 
to the ’ouse. W’y, nat’rally, as one may say, they sez to 
theirselves : ‘ Here ’s a young man whose father was just like 
we.’ But never you mind, sir! You face it out! Let ’em 
look down on you, if they chooses.” 

“ I can’t. I can’t stand it !” cried Rupert. “ I ’m not used 
to it, and I ’m proud, and their eyes burn me and their voices 
are knives in me !” 

“ Proud, say you ?” replied the philosophic Pettigrew. 
“ W’y, then, all I sees for you is to slip off and make a great man 
o’ yourself, and come marchin’ back with bugles blowin’ an’ 
drums beatin’ an’ flags flyin’, an’ people huzzahin’ ! 

“ ‘ When Johnnie comes marchin’ home ! 

When Johnnie comes marchin’ home !’ ” 

sang Mr. Pettigrew, in a fine musical outburst. 

“Yes, if — if I could,” groaned Rupert. 

“ ‘ Could, ’ sez you ? W’y, sir, what’s lackin’ a young lad like 
you, with the world before him, quite unemcumbered ! W’y, 
sir, he can do anything / It’s not as it is with me, loaded like 
a dray-horse with a wife an’ a brat. ‘ Could,’ say you!” cried 
Tony, leaning back and looking critically at Rupert. “ What ! 
There was Whittington — Tun- Again Whittington; you remem- 
ber him ? Lived a few years back, more or less. Three times 
Lord Mayor o’ London. Three times, mind you, an’ wore velvet 
an’ jewels, an’ rode in a coach with flunkeys in pink-silk stock- 
in’s an’ cocked hats, not to speak o’ their other clothes, hang- 
in’ on behind ! W’y, sir, if you was to slip off some mornin’, 
goin’ up an’ down the country in search of adventures — w’y, sir, 
in the matter of a few years’ time back you ’d be. You ’d ha’ 
saved three or four lives from drownding — you’d ha’ rescued a 
r’yal princess or two from wild bulls an’ other mad beasts ; you ’d 
ha’ carried people out o’ burning buildings at the risk o’ your 
own life ; you ’d be richer nor Cresses — whoever he were — an’ 
when you come back all in power an’ glory, then Lady Bidebank 
would be proud o’ you. Then Miss Barth would forget you was 


152 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


a ’doption ; then them Wrigley boys wouldn’t think theirselves 
above you; then you ’d get no sarce from servants.” 

“ I ’ve a mind to try it,” said poor, foolish Rupert, now aroused. 

“Try it!” shouted the genial Pettigrew. “Try it! See if 
you don’t come out the top o’ the heap ! Give us yer hand on 
it, brother ! I see glory in your eye ! I ’m ready — poor Tony ’s 
ready to be your leader an’ your slave — to show them ways to 
you, which, ’long o’ his disadvantages, he couldn’t follow on to 
fortin — 

“ * With a view tally-ho oo-o-oh ! 

With a view tally— hoh V ” 

bellowed Tony again, in uproarious song. 

“ I don’t think Lady Bidebank would mind much” said 
Rupert, hesitatingly. 

“‘Mind!’ Lord love you, not she! W’y, you ain’t hers. But, 
won’t she be proud o’ you when so be as you comes back ! Oh, 
my eye ! I think I see her rej’icin’ and bloomin’ ag’in like a 
desert rose !” 

And thus this mad boy was beguiled; falling unwittingly 
into the very snare which the detested Wrigley had set for him. 

So narrow-sighted is youth, while thinking it sees so far. 

So sure to fall into the snares of secret enemies is youth, when 
taking a step it dares not publish to the ear of day. 

That night Sir Rupert found that Lady Bidebank, feeling 
quite ill, had retired to her room before he came in. Early in 
the morning he tied up two changes of linen in a handkerchief, 
put on his strongest and plainest suit, left a sealed, undirected 
note on his table, which being opened, read thus : 

“ Good-bye. I cannot stay. I feel a beggar— a pauper. I will come back 
some day when I am worth something in myself, and you can be proud of 
me.” 

And then he was away, before four o’clock in the morning, 
under the guidance of — Tony Pettigrew. 

He took with him one memento. He chose as a keepsake of 
Lady Bidebank the very thing which she had fancied he would 
not look at for months. He took the purple-leather pocket-case. 
He knew the two pounds were in one pocket, and he did not look 
in the other. 

Out of the life which he had led ; out of the care and knowl- 
edge of his third mother; out of Myra’s friendship, this luckless 


FREE AND UNFETTERED.” 


153 


(C 


Sir Rupert, led by his malign star, faded as completely as the 
infant Rupert had perished out of his first cradle, and his first 
mother’s arms. 

u * Come back ’ when I am worth something in myself!” cried 
Miss Barth, as she read the note which he had left. “ Poor, 
foolish child ! Does he not know that youth is always worth 
infinitely much in itself when it is honest, frank, obedient and 
pure, and so holds in itself all possibilities of future greatness ?” 

And where was this poor, foolish, self-wasting child ? Off in 
the company of the excellent Tony Pettigrew. 

Blind with excitement, Rupert left his splendid home, met 
Tony outside the grounds, and hurried along with him through 
by-ways, in the early morning, until they reached a little camp 
in a lane; a tent; a donkey-cart; a woman; a boy; a pile of 
wickerware ; a mass of glittering tins ; Mr. Pettigrew’s scientific 
apparatus, now reinforced by a puppet-show, and one or two 
other curiosities ; also by an old man with a dancing bear; an 
organ man with a monkey and an Italian with a harp. 

For all these persons Mrs. Pettigrew was making breakfast at a 
little smoky fire, the cooking utensils being a dim tin coffee-pot 
and a suspiciously black saucepan. 

Tony introduced Sir Rupert to the company as a young friend, 
and then called him into the tent. 

Much to Rupert’s surprise, Mr. Pettigrew drew from a lpag 
a complete suit of roughly made fustian clothes, somewhere about 
the lad’s size. 

“ You ’ll put these on, sir,” said Tony, insinuatingly. “ Them 
you wears is too fine for travelling, and you don’t look like one 
of us in ’em, and I ’m afraid it will hurt some o’ their feelings. 
My own boy is werry tender-hearted, sir, and he cried first to 
break his ’art, and sez he: ‘I don’t want no young cove here a- 
puttin’ on airs and lordin’ it over me.’ Then to him, ‘He’ll 
not do it,’ sez I ; ‘ I knows him better.’ So put ’em on, sir, and 
we ’ll all be more comfortable like, and old is the proverb as says 
when we’re in Rome to do as Romans do.” 

The demented Sir Rupert put on the fustian clothes and a 
pair of sturdy cow-hide shoes which accompanied them. 

“ That ’s fine,” said Tony, encouragingly. “Now you’re at 
ease and unfettered, as one may say, with the poic. An’ now, 
sir, you ’ll find a name for yourself. Seeing as you were a 


154 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


’doption, why, Bidebank ain’t no name o’ yourn, and, sir, him as 
goes forth to make his fortune, why, he makes his own name, 
too, and then he covers it with glory. That he do. Now for 
a name to introduce you by to these gentlemen outside. Will 
you have Joe Dent, or Nick Whipple, or what will you have ?” 

Rupert found the changes required by his new, free and 
unfettered situation remarkably impertinent and burdensome. 
Still he had chosen his lot, and he resolved to submit to its re- 
quirements. 

“ I ’ll take the name of Royal — just Royal,” he said. 

“ ‘ R’v’l !’ Well, take what you likes ; but ’pears to ?ne ‘ R’yal’s * 
rather high-flying-like, and maybe my boy won’t like it.” 

“ 1 don’t care whether your boy likes it or not,” said Rupert. 

Tony evidently did not appreciate this self-assertion, but he 
yielded to it and escorted Rupert to breakfast. 

Unused to such early rising or to such hard fare, and already 
heart-sick of his whole surroundings, the child of Lady Bidebank 
sat among the gipsy crew, quite unable to eat. 

The monkey and the bear amused him a little. The Petti- 
grew imp incensed him. As for the conversation, it was of such 
mongrel, slang English that he really did not comprehend more 
than half of it. 

It seemed understood by the whole company that they were to 
start northward and travel as fast as they could. They were all 
in a tolerably good humor, as they had received from Tony a 
pound apiece, he reserving ten pounds for himself. These 
pounds represented the fee paid to Mr. Pettigrew by Doctor 
Wrigley for persuading off Sir Rupert. 

“You ’re in no danger, Tony,” Doctor Wrigley had said; “ I 
only give you this money as a mark of good-will, for the boy is 
well grown, and goes with you of his own accord, because of the 
discomforts of his present position.” 

Dismal indeed was that first day of wandering to poor Rupert. 
His head ached fearfully ; he was faint with fasting, yet re- 
volted at the coarse food of these tramps. Their clothes, which 
Tony had pronounced free and easy, fettered him and tortured 
him; the entire lack of Jil, the rough seams, the coarse material, 
drove him frantic. Still worse were the shoes, heavy and pegged, 
slipping about on feet that had always worn fine sewed boots. By 
night his stockings were rubbed into holes and his feet into blisters, 


FREE AND UNFETTERED.” 


155 


u 


Tony and his aids preceived the disconsolate case of their new 
comrade, and did their best to flatter and amuse him, fearful 
less he might change his mind and fly back to the home he had 
left. But this Rupert was foolishly ashamed to do, thinking not 
only of the jeers of his present companions, but of the note 
which he had left in his room. 

Besides the shame and torment of the idea of his adoption 
rendered the thought of his former life agonizing to him. On 
that subject he was morbid — insane. 

Late in the evening Tony’s weary company found a place for 
encampment on a dreary common. Even the June sunset and 
warmth could not make the spot fair. Rupert dropped on the 
ground with a groan and kicked off his shoes. 

“ See wot it are,” said Tony, between scorn and banter, 
“to be a fine gentleman ! Why, you don’t tramp half so well 
as my brat, small as he be, an’ loaded with tins, too.” 

“I’m not used to it,” said Rupert, angrily. 

“You’ll get used to it,” said Tony. “‘What’s born in the 
blood will come out in the flesh,’ is a proverb. Your folk before 
you did the same. You ’ll learn it.” 

This suggestion silenced Rupert’s plaints, and overcome by 
hunger he shared the supper provided. Lying then on the 
greensward, his feet toward the fire, the men smoking and 
chatting about him, he took some lazy interest in their queer 
tales, and began to feel less miserable. 

Tony reached out a hand to the boy’s thick curls. 

“What a high-flying ’ead o’ ’air that be!” he said. “It 
do look girl-babyish, don’t it, now? I leave it to the company. 
Don’t it, my brothers ?” 

The men laughed. 

“An’ it’s so ’ot,” continued Tony, “ an’ will get so full o’ 
dust, now there is no wally to clean it. W’y, my boy, if you ’re 
goin’ out ’art and soul, free an’ unfettered, to make your fortin, 
sez I, take off that ’air. It makes you werry noticeable too, and 
some beak may see it and recognize you by it, and captiwate 
you an’ drag you back to your nuss-maid. You wouldn’t like 
that, would you, now ? Dragged back ’ome, for all the servants 
to laugh at an’ all the boys to talk about ?” 

“You may cut it off, if you like,” cried Rupert. 

“Come, now,” said Tony, looking admiringly around the 


156 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


circle, “ain’t he a thorough-goin’ young cove? I ain’t mis- 
took in him — he ’s true grit to the werry backbone. Cut it off, 
sez he — you heerd him. W’y, sir, sez I, if so be it ’s your 
will, I do cut it off. Old woman, where ’s them shears ?” 

Mrs. Pettigrew having produced certain sharp barber’s shears 
furnished by Wrigley with the shoes and the fustian suit, Tony 
knelt behind his victim and dexterously sheared off mass after 
mass of the dark, short curls, of which Myra and Lady Bidebank 
had been so proud. 

In a short time Tony had cleared Sir Rupert’s head of hair, 
leaving nothing over his scalp but a soft, dark, velvety-looking 
nap. Thus robbed, Sir Rupert looked like a young bruiser. 

His head did feel light and cool, especially after the prudent 
Tony had rubbed it well with whisky; and as Sir Rupert was not 
likely soon to see a looking-glass, he would long be unconscious 
of the complete transformation in his appearance. 

Indeed, with clothes changed, gait altered by the shoes, curls 
gone and skin blistered and tanned by the sun, Lady Bidebank 
would hardly have recognized her boy even in this short time. 

By this time, too, the flight of Rupert was known to all his 
friends and acquaintances. His departure was not discovered 
until noon, when Lawyer Mellodew, coming to- talk with him, 
the boy was vainly sought, and the unaddressed note from his 
table was given to the lawyer. 

Fearful of the effect this news might have on Lady Bidebank, 
Mr. Mellodew went with the note to Myra, to take counsel with 
her. 

The servants of both houses were accordingly sent out to seek 
for the runaway. 

Myra then went to Bidebank Hall to break the news to her 
friend, and while she was with her ladyship, Lawyer Mellodew, 
standing on the portico, saw Sir James Wrigley, M. P., leisurely 
approaching. 

He had come ostensibly to inquire after Lady Bidebank’s 
health — as courteous neighbors should. 

“Lady Bidebank, 5/ said the lawyer, “was poorly yesterday, 
and is likely to be worse to-day ; for that fine little fellow, Ru- 
pert, has got some crotchet in his head about being a foundling 
—a plague on whoever told him of it !— and in his misery he has 
run away,” 


FREE AND UNFETTERED. >> 


157 


cc 


“Bless my life !” cried Wrigley. “Well, that is what usually 
comes of adopting strange children. It always calls to my 
mind the fable of the man who warmed a snake in his bosom 
until it bit him and his family.” 

“ It makes me think,” growled Mr. Mellodew, who was always 
at swords’ points with Wrigley, “ of the cursed folly of those 
gabblers who will never let other people’s business alone. O 
meddlers, meddlers !” Down came Myra. 

“And how does her ladyship bear the news?” asked Mr. 
Mellodew. “ She is very fond of the boy, and made her will in 
favor of him yesterday.” 

“ The news, instead of prostrating her,” replied Myra, “ seems 
to have driven her to self-control and to summon all her 
strength to find the boy. She wishes the police to be notified to 
begin the search.” 

“I think,” said Wrigley, in his most wheedling voice, “that 
I know the best place to look for him. Down by the docks.” 

“ What ! You think he has gone to sea?” 

“Yes, I do,” said Wrigley. “ He has been dropping lately 
a good many remarks about sea , and making fortunes and names 
in going to sea. And lately I have seen him a good deal with a 
strange, sailor-looking fellow that I thought I recognized for a 
man named Sam Porter, who used to live near the Reservoir, and 
who ran away to sea, as times got hard, and I suppose he grew 
tired of supporting a wife and child and mother-in-law. Stopped 
too much of his porter , you see — He ! He ! He !” laughed 
Wrigley, looking from Mellodew to Miss Barth. 

“And you saw this man with Rupert?” asked Myra. 

“ Yes. They seemed very confidential together.” 

“Why did you not mention it to her ladyship?” cried Mr. 
Mellodew. 

“ I disliked meddling with other people’s business,” said Wrig- 
ley, meaningly. 

“ With Porter !” cried Myra. “ Then I am afraid he has gone 
off for good — and we shall not be able to find him ! That man 
was his father , was he not , James Wrigley V' 

And Miss Barth fixed flaming eyes on her cousin — eyes that 
indicated Baby-Farmer and a deal of hidden iniquity. 

“Yes,” said Wrigley, daunted a little. “ Yes, my cousin ; I 
think you are right.” 


*58 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ This is a terrible turn of affairs !” cried Mr. Mellodew. 
“ The man probably wanted back his child, or to have him in 
his power and get influence through him to enable him to black- 
mail her ladyship.” 

“And we had best search the docks, and the outgoing ships 
at London and Liverpool, and advertise him in seaports. Per- 
haps we can find the two and come to some terms with the man,” 
said Myra. 

“ That is exactly what you had better do,” said Wrigley, with 
the greatest cordiality. 

Mr. Mellodew haying gone to town with instructions to search 
for the missing boy, Sir J. Wrigley, M. P., returned to Clematis 
Villa and his waiting tea. His wife alone graced the tea-table. 
The boys were off to a cricket-match, and the girls had invited 
themselves to tea with Mi at Barth House. 

“ And so,” said Wrigley, receiving his first cup of tea from the 
hand of his spouse, “ Lady Bidebank is finding out how foolish it 
is to adopt stray lads. That boy Rupert of hers has run away, 
leaving a note to tell he is never coming back. It is supposed 
his own father has come across him and taken him off to sea.” 

“Oh! Oh!” shrieked Mrs. Wrigley. “And Lady Bidebank 
was so fond of him ! Ah ! Ah !” 

“Fond! More fool she!” growled Wrigley, feverishly wash- 
ing down all his latest lies with tea. “ Fond ! So she was. Why, 
Mellodew tells me she had him up there making her will yester- 
day, and left all her property to that boy !” 

“Gone! Gone!” cried Mrs. Wrigley, wildly. “Oh, me! 
Oh, me ! I ’m so sorry !” And she burst into tears. 

“Sorry! Why, woman, what an idiot you are! Sorry! 
Between us two, you ought to be glad ! I am / Myra was get- 
ting a deal too fond of the little rascal. She plainly preferred him 
to our boys, and she was proposing, if her ladyship died, to take 
him to live at Barth — in our boy’s place, mind you !” 

“ Live at Barth !” moaned Mrs. Wrigley, hysterically. “ I 
wish he did live at Barth !” 

“You’re mad!” shouted her husband. “She would have 
found plenty of ways to spend money on the young upstart ! A 
pretty mother you are, willing to see a stranger in your own 
son’s proper place !” 

“Yes, I am a mother,” wailed Mrs. Wrigley, “and I’ve got 


U FREE AND UNFETTERED.’* 


159 

girls as well as boys, and I must think for all of them. It is you 
that is the fool now, Wrigley, and as blind as any bat, not to 
see that that boy was a born match for our Mi. Why, Lady 
Bidebank will live years and years, likely. Why not? And 
those two could have married young and lived at Bidebank Hall, 
and Mi would have come in for all Lady Bidebank’s jewels and 
those costly laces and no end of elegant things, and Rupert 
with thirty thousand pounds to start in life on.” 

“ What are you talking about ?” cried the amazed Wrigley. 

“ Why, about Rupert and Mi. And if he ’d only stayed where 
he was well off, they might grow up to be married. He is no end 
fond of the child. In his childish way he has always said- said 
it fifty times if he has once — that he would marry our Mi when 
he got big. Quite genteel it would be, indeed. And you ask me, 
Wrigley,” cried Mrs. Wrigley, with indignation — “you ask me 
to be glad he ’s gone, when them two children was just made for 
each other, and loved each other like a pair of cherubs, and 
played at housekeeping just like a pair of blessed angels !” 

Wrigley uttered not a word. His jaw fell. His eyes emitted 
a green light. He rose from the table. He went into the garden. 
He stood by an acacia-tree. He whistled from beginning to end 
the “ Dead March in Saul.” It entered his mind that it was just 
barely possible that he had been overreaching himself. 

Mrs. Wrigley, meanwhile, put on her bonnet and repaired to 
Barth House. 

There she sat and cried and lamented, her three daughters 
weeping in chorus around her, until little Mi had to be carried 
to bed, quite exhausted. 

With the other two in her train, Mrs. Wrigley set out in the 
moonlight to inquire for news at Bidebank Hall and to mention 
the topic of the day at Bidebank Lodge to the contessa and her 
daughter. Natolie Idria was too proud to weep publicly for 
this very naughty little boy, but she went to her bed and cried 
all night. 

Meanwhile, the desperate truant, cause of so much woe, slept 
uneasily in his fustian suit, his head cropped, his feet blistered, 
tramps judiciously stretched around him, and dreamed frightful 
dreams under the silent stars. 


i6o 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE STORY OF A YEAR. 

Fancy the fashion of tramp which Sir Rupert, reared in luxury, 
became. 

From the crown of his head to the sole of his foot he revolted 
from the life that he had chosen. But he was too proud to go 
back — and, indeed, the arrow shot by Doctor Wrigley, his con- 
cealed foe, was rankling in his ardent soul. 

Tony had tempted him to set out to pursue greatness, to make 
a splendid fellow of himself; but even his enthusiasm could not 
make this seem the high-road to fame ; this tramping about the 
country, eyed with suspicion, sleeping out-of-doors or in penny 
lodgings ; watched by small shop-keepers ; warned on by police- 
men or rustic magistrates — a boy selling tins, a woman selling 
baskets, men exhibiting monkey-shows. 

Coming away from home, Rupert had put into his bundle a 
comb and a tooth-brush ; but not being accustomed to provide 
for himself, he forgot soap and towels. 

On his very first morning out he asked Mrs. Pettigrew for these 
needful articles. 

Mrs. Pettigrew, with a begrimed face, was getting breakfast, 
while her unwashed heir was lying in the dirt. Mrs. Pettigrew 
turned angrily at Sir Rupert’s petition and reluctantly produced 
a bit of brown, shriveled soap. 

In a few minutes came the demand for a towel — a demand 
made in a lordly tone, too, and Mrs. Pettigrew’s fury burst forth 
into speech : 

“ Soap and towels, sez you ! Soap and towels ! My land, but 
you are a pretty poppy-show for a wayside traveller ! Here 
you ’ve been and used up nigh all the soap I ’ve got — and then 
it’s towels ! Towels /” shrieked Mrs. Pettigrew — the word seem- 
ing to excite her ire. “ What for ? Is your face wet? Rub 
it off on your ja<pket-sleeve ! When I want to wipe my face or 
hands I pick up the tail o’ my gown, and good enough — ” 

Rupert fled as the dame continued her rhapsody. 

But he had in his pocket-case two pounds, and he concluded to 


THE STORY OF A YEAR. 


161 


purchase things which he considered indispensable to a wandering 
life. 

He bought a little hammock, two towels, a pocket-cup, a fork 
and so on, spending a pound. 

Mrs. Tony Pettigrew saw the new impediments and drew her 
own deductions : 

Purchases ? 

Therefore money. 

Money ? 

Therefore on his person. 

For Mistress Tony Pettigrew had ransacked his bundle. 

Money in his possession ? 

Then must Mrs. T. P. find and secure it. 

To do this required some caution and a little time. 

Meanwhile Rupert dragged out his doleful days. Sometimes 
his spirit rose as the sun rose and the laverocks tilted toward 
the sky. 

But they declined as the day declined and the birds grew 
mute, and sought their nests. 

He was sitting by the smoldering camp-fire one night; his 
keepers — for so really these other tramps were — lying smoking 
and gabbling about him. Rupert was gloomily considering 
that he seemed to be on a down-grade, and not an up-grade. 
What credit was he in the way of gaining ! Was this the path to 
fortune ? Lady Bidebank would weep at sight of him. Miss 
Barth would consider him a reprobate. And Natolie, adored 
Natolie,.vwould turn up her lovely little nose at him. 

“You look down in the mouth, brother,” said Tony, who 
always addressed him familiarly. “ You chirk up. It may be 
to-morrow, or it may be next day, that you ’ll meet that happy 
chance to make a great man o’ yerself. Who knows but you’’ll 
rescue some juke’s daughter from this ’ere dancing bear or other 
annymull. Then all goes on easy, an’ just like a story in a 
penny dreadful, and you marries the juke’s heiress.” 

“ I don’t want her!” retorted Sir Rupert, savagely. 

“Oh, you don’t! Why, then, it must be an uncommon bad 
case o’ ‘ the girl I left behind me !’ And you ’ve got it hard, 
brother. Was she nice — werry nice ?” 

The bantering tone roused Rupert’s hot temper. 

“Yes, she is nice ; nicer than any one ever you saw.” 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


162 


“Oh !” says Tony, whose move was now to appease. “Well, 
brother, to be crossed in love is a sore thing, and ‘ the pangs of 
unrequited ’fection,’ as says the poic, is dreadful pangs. I knows 
all about ’em.” 

L “ Much you do !” cried Mrs. Tony, tartly. 

“There’s no tellin’,” continued Mr. Pettigrew, ignoring his 
wife’s skeptical interjection, “what / might ’a’ been if I ’d loved 
wisely and not too well.” 

“Nothin’,” asserted Mrs. T. P., with great energy, “would 
hev made you less nor the wagebone you are.” 

“ I might,” said Mr. Pettigrew, with increasing solemnity, 
“ been a butler if I ’d married a lud’s housekeeper. I might ’a’ 
been a green-grocer man if I ’d married a green-grocer woman. 
I might ’a’ been a juke if I ’d married a jukess. I might ’a’ 
been a king, like Albert o’ Saxe-Gotha, if I ’d married a queen, 
like he did. I won’t say as ladies in all these lines o’ life hasn’t 
looked agreeable at me. All I do say is, take warning by me. 

I ’m a wreck all along o’ bad choice. I ’m a ruined man, all 
along o’ fritterin’ away my young affections. What can you, my 
brother, suspect of a man who is married to a woman as sells 
baskets, willow baskets, and other sich ?” 

But the end of Mrs. Tony’s patience had arrived, and with it 
arrived the coffee-pot at Mr. Tony’s head; said pot went whiz- 
zing past Sir Rupert, and, well projected by the vigorous hand 
that dealt in willow ware, it crashed upon Tony’s countenance, 
and not only blacked his nose, and bruised his forehead, but 
sprinkled him with cold coffee and about half a pound of damp 
grounds. Thus Tony had grounds of complaint, and he rose up 
and filled the air with his vociferations against the wife of his 
bosom. 

The pair were still raging at each other when Sir Rupert 
sought a convenient spot for swinging his hammock. When he 
carefully turned into that hanging couch the owner of the bear 
found it to his interest to lie down under it, while the monkey 
man camped on the right, and the harp man on the left. Thus 
the “ free and unfettered ” Sir Rupert was a prisoner at large, 
and this was his guard of honor. 

The strollers had passed the Chiltern Hills and the Ouse and 
camped upon the upper waters of the Nen. Tony and the rest 
of the men, with the boy, clad in tins, adjourned to one of the 


THE STORY OF A YEAR. 


163 


little hamlets of that district to collect coppers from the rustics. 
It had been proposed that Sir Rupert and Mrs. Pettigrew should 
go with them, but Mrs. Pettigrew said she must spend the after- 
noon in washing the clothes ; and Rupert said he was too tired, 
and “did not like that business, ” so he cast himself down by the 
river-side. 

“ Now, see here, old gal,” said Tony to his wife, “ what I tell 
you is not to let that young swell slip away from you. Keep your 
eye on him. If he chucks hisself into the river, or hangs hisself, 
that ’s all right ; we ain’t to blame for that, and least said soonest 
mended. But he can’t be let to run away.” 

“All right,” said Mrs. Tony. “I ’ll watch him.” 

No sooner had all the band departed than Mrs. Tony confided 
to Rupert that they were a dirty, disreputable set, and she was 
sick to death of them. Now they were off, she would have some 
good of her life, and she and Rupert — or Royal , as she called him 
— could have a “ decent meal’s victuals.” Mrs. Tony then heated 
some water, took soap and scoured her dishes and her coffee-pot, 
and, with an elaborate show of neatness, made, before Rupert’s 
eyes, coffee. She fried eggs and bacon and made buttered toast. 
It was a more reasonable and better prepared meal than he had 
seen for a long while, and Rupert addressed himself to it with 
energy. 

Mrs. T. P. pressed him to eat, and poured out coffee with 
a liberal hand. 

“It’s bitter coffee, ain’t it, now?” she said, tasting it; “but 
I ’ll put in plenty o’ sugar.” 

So she made a great show of sipping and relishing the com- 
pound, and when Sir Rupert was not looking she emptied her 
cup on the sod, and so filled again. 

After dinner, Mrs. Pettigrew advised Sir Rupert to “lie down 
on the bank and have a nap, and rest hisself in peace.” 

Rupert, feeling uncommonly drowsy, adopted the suggestion, 
and as Mrs. Tony washed the dishes and set about the clothes, 
she perceived that he was sleeping heavily. 

“ I wonder what would happen if he never woke up?” she said 
to herself. “ Would we have to call the coroner and have a 
inkwich ? That might be bad for us. P’raps Tony could slip 
him under ground and say nothing to nobody.” 

After a time, as the boy’s sleep was very deep, she went to him 


164 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


and began cautiously searching his clothing. After some little 
time she found the purple-morocco case in an inside pocket of his 
blue-flannel shirt. 

Looking eagerly about to see if she were observed, Mrs. Petti- 
grew examined the case. 

“Gold,” she said, of chain and clasp. “What lots of non- 
sense these quality do buy ! I could get five shillin’ for it in 
Lun’on. But there. I s’pose this fancy fixin’ here means her 
ladyship’s name, an’ if I sells it I ’ll get into quod. What ’s in 
it ? Let ’s have a look.” 

She opened it carefully and found a pound-note. 

“ So much for me,” said Mrs. Pettigrew, and then searched 
further, and opened the pocket where Rupert had not looked. 
There she found the letter of Lady Bidebank, superscribed, 
“For Rupert, to be read after my death.” 

Mrs. Pettigrew was but a poor scholar, and it took her a long 
while to make out these words. 

“ We ’ll see what she ’s going to say after she ’s dead,” finally 
said Mrs. Pettigrew, adjourning to her tea-kettle, and holding 
the sealed envelope close to the steam. Presently the edges fell 
apart. With another look at her sleeping victim and another 
glance along the country side, Mrs. Tony addressed herself to 
this document. 

Intense eagerness and anxious wonderment on her face slowly 
began to give way to high delight. The grimy finger tracing the 
letters spelled out: “ ‘T-h-e,’ and’ere’s a ‘ h-L’ and ’ere ’s a ‘ T,’ 
an’ ’ere’ another *T,’ an’ ’ere ’s ’er name — ‘ Bidebank.’ I can 
guess the last half o’ that word from the first.” 

At this point Mrs. Tony in her joy rose up and executed a 
hornpipe, and whooped in her delight like a school-boy just set 
free. 

Then she recollected herself, looked about, and resumed 
the study of the document. Two hours passed before it was all 
read. Then another hour sufficed to read it and reread it again. 
Then she nearly had the contents by heart. 

“Here’s luck to me,” said Mrs. Pettigrew, “and now I’ll 
seal this up, and I ’ll put it in the very case, and I ’ll wrap it 
good in paper and in rags, for folks should alius be right careful 
of things they find, that some day may be of use to their owners. 
And I ’ll take care of this as if it was diamonds,” continued Mrs. 


THE STORY OF A YEAR. 


165 


Pettigrew, “and I hope that young chap won’t die. I wonder if 
he could sleep himself away?” 

She hid the case as she proposed, making it safe from the in- 
vestigations of Mr. Pettigrew or any of her companions. She 
concealed the pound note also upon her person, and these im- 
portant affairs being attended to, she again bethought herself of 
the lesser matter of the boy’s physical state. 

She bent over him. 

His nose looked blue and pinched, so did his lips, and his eyes 
were sunken, with dark rings around them. Still his pulse was 
strong, his flesh warm, his breathing regular, though deep, and 
Mrs. Pettigrew, without any especial anxiety, assured herself that 
“ he ’d come out all right.” 

She then hurried about her work, and prepared supper for her 
comrades. 

After supper the woman said to her husband : 

“ Tony, go look at that boy, how he sleeps.” 

They went together. 

“ D’ ye think he ’ll die ?” asked Mrs. Pettigrew, anxiously. 

“ No — wish he would.” 

“But think o’ the crowner and the p’lice, Tony.” 

“Yes — them’s to be considered,” said Mr. Pettigrew, stoop- 
ing close over Rupert. Then he looked up. “ I smell laudanum.” 

“ No you don’t,” said his wife. 

“Yes, I do, you jade! You’ve been up to tricks, have 
you ?” 

“No, I haven’t,” said Mrs. Tony, stoutly. “No, Tony, ’pon 
my soul and honor.” 

“Hoot!” said Tony. “I don’t believe you’ve got any soul ; 
and as to your honor, ’t ain’t worth a counterfeit farthin’.” 

When the rest of her company had fallen asleep, stretched here 
and there under the little tent or by the dying embers of the fire, 
Mrs. Tony, who had covered Rupert from the dew, sat, with her 
knees drawn up and her arms clasped about them, in a deep 
muse. She was looking far into the future. Finally she rose, 
lit some twigs and made a cupful of very strong, clear coffee. 
This she administered to Rupert, a tablespoonful at a time. He 
swallowed it, to her great contentment, without waking up. 
After a time his respiration grew less profound and his slumber 
more natural. When the sun was well up and the camp in a 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


1 66 

bustle, Rupert opened his eyes. His long sleep had not refreshed 
him. His head ached. He was giddy, feverish and nauseated. 

For two days the tramps were obliged to delay on his account. 

Mrs. Tony, who was for the most part left alone with him, 
changed her tactics and exerted herself to be amiable. She 
cooked as nicely as she knew how for him, and addressed him 
with respect. 

Rupert began to forget her previous rudeness and to regard her 
as his only friend. 

They had been on the march through the Leicester highlands 
for some days before Rupert discovered the loss of his morocco 
case. 

He concluded at once that it had been taken from him while 
he was asleep so profoundly. 

He spoke of it first to Mrs. Tony. 

“Well, don’t for your life mention it to Pettigrew,” she said. 
“ He ’d be that wi’lent your life wouldn’t be safe. What ’s done 
can’t be undone.” 

“I’m not a sheep,” retorted Rupert, “to be robbed and to 
say nothin’.” 

So he attacked Tony about the case. The tramp ruffled won- 
derfully. 

“Wot does you take us for ? A pound, sez you ? And a case 
clasped with gold ? I don’t believe a word of it. Ain’t we gentle- 
men ? If we wasn’t, would high-flyers with gold cases and pound 
notes live with us?” 

The same said all of the crew, vowing that Rupert, if he had 
lost anything, must have lost it on the road. They all sus- 
pected Mrs. Tony, and on separate occasions every man of them 
ransacked her entire luggage, hoping to secure the plunder for 
himself. But all quite fruitlessly. 

On and on went the strollers until short November days saw 
them in one of the dismal wynds of Glasgow. There they spent 
the winter. 

Poor Rupert was too ragged and too miserable in his free and 
unfettered search after glory and fortune to try and better him- 
self. He had been reared in a way that rendered independent 
exertion difficult. The little Etonian was helpless in his present 
degradation. He felt his degradation so keenly that he could 
not ventiire to ask a helping hand to pull him out of the slough. 


THE STORY OF A YEAR. 


167 


That he did not become corrupt and vicious, as well as miser- 
able, must have been owing to a providential interposition. Prob- 
ably the spirits of those two loving mothers, Elizabeth Barth and 
the not less tender Jane Porter, watched over the child on whom 
they had doted, and warned of the approach of the spirits of 
evil. 

James Wrigley had warned Tony Pettigrew to go to Ireland 
from Scotland, and never to bring back Sir Rupert to English 
soil. But Tony wanted more money from his patron, and 
he could force it from him by going back near London. 

So in early May they started, and in June — it was the twentieth 
day— this precious company of rascals was encamped twelve 
miles from Barth and Bidebank, in a little glen. Anxiety was 
written on their faces, and each was making preparations to fall 
away from his fellows. 

Half a mile from their camp, near the side of a by-road, was 
a stone hut. In that very June, Mr. Timmy Titlow had been 
notified that an uncle in Hertford had left him one hundred 
pounds. Timmy got leave of absence, went to the funeral, got 
his money, and being, like Mrs. Gilpin, “of a frugal mind,” 
was walking homeward. On this very 20th of June his way lay 
past this old stone hut, and as he passed, a voice cried wildly : 

“ Timmy ! Timmy Titlow ! Speak all the truth !” 

“ That ’s what I lays out to do,” cried Timmy, promptly ; 
“ but who ’s a charging me that way ?” 

There was a little window opening in the hut, and into that 
Timmy looked. His big head and shoulders filling up the open- 
ing, he saw nothing but darkness, heard nothing but silence. 

“ Who called me so unexpected ?” cried Timmy. 

Silence. 

“ Save us all !” cried Mr. Titlow. “Once I see a ghost, now I 
hears one ! Timmy, what ’s wrong with you ?” 

“ Natolie ! Natolie Idria, speak to me!” screamed a voice in 
the darkness. 

“Now, Timmy,” exhorted Mr. Titlow, “in there you goes 
to investigate. Do your duty like a man, and if you dies, Tim- 
my, you falls on the field o’ honor.” 

He pushed open the heavy wooden door, and as his eyes accus- 
tomed themselves to the faint light, he saw a heap of straw and 
on it a human figure. That figure, burnt with fever, wasted 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


1 68 

away from its boyish strength, Timmy Titlow carried to the light 
of the outside day. 

The dark curls were matted over the handsome head again, and 
in this raving fever patient Timmy Titlow recognized Lady Bide- 
bank’s lost boy. 

Never stopped honest Timmy to wonder or cry out; to get the 
boy home was his one idea, and on he strode carrying him. 

But within a mile he met the blessed reality of a spring cart, 
loaded with clover, and driven by a boy. 

“ I ’ll give you five pun’,” said Timmy, lifting his burden upon 
the clover, “if you ’ll drive me lively to Bidebank Hall. Up and 
away !” 

Lady Bidebank and Myra and the Contessa Idria and another 
friend or two were sitting in a pavilion on the front terrace of 
the Hall, when up strode Timmy Titlow, flushed with speed, and 
bearing a most desolate-looking figure. 

“My lady, and ladies all,” said Timmy, “I’ve found and 
brought back a little gentleman as you are all fond of, and the 
sooner you puts him into bed and sends for a doctor, may I be 
bold to say, the better. For accidents will happen in the best 
regulated families.” 

As Timmy Titlow drew near to the hut whence he heard issue 
the voice, Tony, his reprobate cousin, interviewed Sir J. Wrigley, 
M. P., at Clematis Villa. Tony was tipsy and mysterious. 

“ Sir — your lordly honor — I wants ten pound, to bury that 
boy, sir.” 

“What! Is he dead?” 

“ Aye, sir ; he be.” 

“ When did he die ? Where did he die ? How did he die ?” 

Thus pushed into close quarters, Tony hesitated. 

“ Well, sir, he got took with fever — typhoid, it are — and — he 
— wasn’t just dead when I left him; but he will be when I gets 
back. He are in a hut out yon.” 

“ I think it is my duty to go and see him,” said the cautious 
Wrigley, relieved to think that finally this part of his troubles 
could be buried. “ You go on, Tony, and I ’ll meet you at the 
Ox Fall Stile.” 

Tony having met his patron at the appointed place, the two 
reached the hut an hour after Timmy had left it with his burden. 

“ In here, sir. Here he lies. No noise from he, sir. I make 


HE LOSES HIS LADY-LOVE. 


169 


no doubt he ’s dead.” And bending in the gloom to feel the body 
on the straw, Tony found nothing ! He gave a loud cry. “ Sir, 
he ’s gone !” 

“Gone! He was never here, you lying villain ! I’d like to 
break your neck for you ! He has escaped, and this is the way 
you undertook to hocus me !” And flinging Tony against the 
wall, Wrigley strode off, leaving his employee overwhelmed with 
surprise and poor whisky. 

Going to Barth House before he went home, Wrigley met his 
daughter Mi, her eyes shining with joy. 

“ Oh, father ! Ain’t you glad ? Lady Bidebank’s Rupert is 
found ! He has been brought home ! He is sick ; but surely 
they will cure him ! Ain't you glad 


CHAPTER XIX. 

HE LOSES HIS LADY-LOVE. 

Whether or not Lady Bidebank’s love for the son of her adop- 
tion had cooled during his year’s desertion, the instant that, sick, 
unconscious, ragged, he was thrown again upon her care, all her 
tenderness revived. Had Sir Rupert been a prince of the blood 
he could not have had more skillful attendance or more ex- 
quisite attention than he now had bestowed upon him. Lady 
Bidebank and Miss Barth devoted themselves to him. 

The boy, in his delirium, lived, not the scenes of his tramp 
life, but the hours when he had first discovered that he was 
adopted by her ladyship. All his pride, his sensitive shrinking 
from scorn, his grief, his shame, came clearly out, and her lady- 
ship compassionated him with all her soul, and soon loved him 
far more tenderly than before. 

But Rupert’s escapade had raised up one very powerful enemy 
for him. 

The present Lord Bidebank had but ill endured that her lady- 
ship should adopt a child of unknown birth. 

The fact that her boy was one of the famous Baby-Farmer’s 
victims had been sedulously concealed by her ladyship from every 
one but her attached, faithful maid, Lady Barth and Myra. 

But Lord Bidebank knew that the child was what he called a 


170 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“common person,” a “mere nobody,” and he only tolerated 
him or his presence in the family. Then when Rupert disap- 
peared, creating a scandal, a talk, curious inquiries — when the af- 
fair had drifted into the newspapers and into the sacred precincts 
of his club-room, then Lord Bidebank fairly abhorred Sir Rupert. 

When his lordship heard that the boy was back — when, indeed, 
his own valet informed him that the boy had been returned, 
ragged, dirty, sick, in a cart filled with clover, Lord Bidebank 
turned purple with mortification. 

He drove to Bidebank Hall, careful to come in all the glory of 
lackeys and coats of arms, and the most grand of all his grand 
coaches, the finest and highest stepping of all his fine horses. 

“ My dear lady,” he said, with awful solemnity, to his kins- 
woman, “you certainly do not intend to take back that vulgar 
little rascal ?” 

“ Why not ?” demanded Lady Bidebank. 

“ It is in all respects unsuitable. He has shown his low birth 
and his ineradicably bad disposition by running off with vile 
strollers for a year. He is no doubt now their confederate and 
will use his position here to admit them to your house, to rob 
£nd perhaps murder you.” 

“ I know him better. He is a boy worthy of love, and I, being 
otherwise childless, love him as my son.” 

“ As the head of the Family, and in the name of all the Fam- 
ily,” said his lordship, speaking in capitals, “I protest against 
bringing this disgrace on us.” 

“ And why disgrace ?” 

“Your ladyship makes us all subjects of gossip. We are ques- 
tioned and wondered at. I consider it very bad taste. The boy 
is detestable. I cannot allow my children to speak to him or 
know him. If you keep him here, we shall be obliged to decline 
to come here.” 

“I shall be sorry for that,” said Lady Bidebank, in the quiet 
tone of one who could bravely endure this misfortune. “But I 
shall be sufficient for the boy’s protection, for his position in 
society; and my money will keep him from poverty, at least.” 

Thus the reception of this little prodigal son made a breach in 
the Family , and Lord Bidebank, in the character of elder brother, 
felt himself outraged. 

“ And who was this man who persuaded you away ?” asked her 


HE LOSES HIS LADY-LOVE. 


171 

ladyship, finally, when the convalescent Rupert was lying on a 
couch in her own room. 

“ His name, I think, was Tony, for once in a while they used 
that ; but I don’t remember if I heard any other name for him 
but a nickname. They called him Gab and his wife Gabby, for 
they talked no end. You never heard anything like it.” 

Lady Bidebank shuddered. 

Sir Rupert’s statement was true. When Tony Pettigrew fled 
from the metropolis to live a “free and unfettered life,” he dropped 
his own name. When he and his own wife again joined company, 
he warned her that that name must lie in oblivion, and the two 
were finally known only as Gab and Gabby. 

“ I don’t see how he knew anything about you , or why he 
should take an interest in leading you off.” 

Rupert pondered a long time. 

“I believe, Miss Barth, your cousin Wrigley was at the 
bottom of it,” he said finally. 

“ ‘ Wrigley !’ ” cried Myra. 

“ I have a mixed recollection,” said Rupert, “ of feeling carried 
or moved about, and two folks — him and her — talking over me, 
and of his saying : ‘ Doctor Wrigley won’t ask better news than 
that he’s here, dead.’ 

“ * He ’d be worth more alive to us,’ she said. And then I 
heard him say: 

“ ‘Doctor Wrigley would give twenty pounds for his dead 
body.’ ” 

“ Oh, impossible !” cried Myra. “ Is not this a fever dream? 
Remember you were sick, unconscious.” 

“I’m sure I heard it and that it was real talk.” 

“ And the man’s name was Tony?” said Miss Barth. 

“ Yes, I ’m sure of that.” 

“ What could be the object?’ asked Lady Bidebank. 

She and Myra discussed it when they were alone. 

“ You remember that Wrigley put him with the baby-farmer ; 
his unrelenting hate seems to pursue him,” said Lady Bidebank. 
“ I believe that we should take this matter up and ferret out the 
mystery.” 

“ It would probably result in finding that he was the child of 
some person of rank who has paid the doctor heavily, or gives 
him an annuity, for hiding him,” said Myra. “ If we meddle 


J72 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


with the matter we shall stir up a scandal, get ourselves in- 
volved in very unpleasant things ; and we have so little grounds 
for charges. Rupert may really have heard this; but Wrigley 
can take shelter behind fever insanity.” 

“The dear boy is beset by enemies,” cried Lady Bidebank. 
“ Doctor Wrigley desires his death. Lord Bidebank detests him, 
and is ready to believe that he is a thief and a friend of murderers. 
I shall take him away from a place that has become hateful to 
him and to me. I shall get a tutor for him and take him to the 
Continent, where we can live a few years until he is out of that 
man’s power and has outgrown the scandals and suspicions which 
now make him miserable.” 

The tutor was soon engaged, but various affairs conspired to 
keep Lady Bidebank in England until the next June. 

During that fall and winter the friendship of Rupert, Natolie 
and Mi was renewed. Rupert shrank from most of his boy 
friends, but the girls soothed and cheered his excited mind. 

Doctor Wrigley seemed so heartily glad that Lady Bidebank’s 
boy had been found, spoke so pleasantly to and of him, and so 
favored his friendship for Mi, that Miss Barth became convinced 
that their suspicions of his hostility were groundless. However, 
he was now but wisely seeking to find if there were any value in 
Mrs. Wrigley’s projects, since his own had failed. 

But another summer came round, and Sir Rupert was fifteen, 
and he was ready to set out for the Continent. Mi cried for two 
days. She recklessly forgot that crying swelled her eyes and 
made her more red. She did not care who knew how sorry she 
felt. She and Rupert and Natolie had had such lovely times, and 
now all was ended. This wonderful boy, with his beautiful face, 
his curls, his adventures, his merry tongue, going far away from 
his little worshiper. 

Natolie would not cry— by no means. She vowed that she was 
glad he was going. She said he needed to see more of the world. 
Let him go to France if he wanted to see good manners, to 
Germany if he desired to imbibe learning, to Italy for art and 
blue skies. 

What was England ? Alas ! a country of cold and exile and 
lack of all delights. 

These words cut Rupert to the soul. But he echoed them all 
and went further, saying he should remain until he was a man, 


HE LOSES HIS LADY-LOVE. 


173 


and would go to Spain and woo and wed a lovely Spanish damsel 
with languishing eyes and a lace mantilla, and he hoped they 
would both like her when he brought her back. 

And yet, after all this skirmishing in public, it fell out that 
Rupert and Natolie met one afternoon on the very spot where 
first he had seen her gathering primroses. And then Rupert had 
wildly vowed that she was the idol of his existence and that he 
should never love any one else; that absence from her would 
throw gloom over France, Germany, Italy and all other celestial 
resorts! Ah, would she forget him? Would she laugh at his 
devotion? And Natolie, looking down, had thought better of her 
hardness of heart, and concluded that she did like him a little ; 
and she would not forget him, and when she said a thing she 
never changed her mind. 

Then these little people exchanged flowers and kisses and 
pocket handkerchiefs. 

They did not promise to write each other, for the Contessa 
Idria and Lady Bidebank would have been shocked at that ; but 
they were always to be true to each other, and as young man and 
young woman they could publicly make known their preference. 
Then they each went home, and that night all three — Rupert, 
Natolie and Mi — cried themselves to sleep. 

And so Rupert was gone. Bidebank Hall was shut only for 
the presence of the butler, the housekeeper and three serv- 
ants who kept their state in the rear, and aired and sunned 
the rooms and looked forward to the distant return of their 
mistress. 

Rupert was gone, and Sir James Wrigley, M. P., walking over 
to confer his presence on “my cousin,” found his youngest 
daughter sitting, “a maiden all forlorn,” on a bench in the 
garden. 

“And so,” says the paternal Wrigley, cheerily, “so your 
little lover has gone again, has he ?’* 

“ He ’s not my lover,” retorts Mi, flushing. “ He likes Natolie 
a great deal more than he does me.” 

“ What ! That little foreign girl — -the contessa's girl ?” 

“ Yes; to be sure,” replies Mi, though her bosom heaves with 
some jealousy at the thought. “But he’s my friend and my 
make-believe brother, and I ’m awfully sorry he ’s gone.” And 
she sets to crying again. 


174 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ You ’ve plenty of brothers without any make-believe ” says 
her parent, grimly, and passes on. 

That was such nonsense of Mrs. Wrigley’s — fancying a match 
between these two children ! 

Who in this world ever heard of things falling out as they 
should? 

What but ill-luck ever came of that boy? 

Bereft of her friend, Lady Bidebank, Miss Barth was more 
lonely and secluded than ever. 

Her interests and occupations seemed to be in money accumula- 
tions, whereof she felt that she had plenty, and that whatever she 
heaped was for the Wrigleys, who would grace it but ill. 

The only two Wrigleys whom she could endure were that 
honest fellow, “ Our Eldest,” who had chosen law for his pro- 
fession, and had now taken chambers in Temple Inn, and that 
pleasant child Mi, who was to the most of her other relations as a 
lily to thorns. 

Abandoned to solitude, Myra Barth’s thoughts more than ever 
reverted to the lover whom she had so long mourned. The love 
of youth seemed to spring up anew in her mature heart. 

Thus Myra Barth, in the cool and pleasant shades about Barth 
House, revisited the scenes where she had wandered with Jasper 
Fitzroy, and dreamed of the lost love of her girlhood. And Jasper 
Fitzroy, toiling under Asian suns, dwelt hour after hour on his 
long-unseen Myra, and shrined her in his heart of heart, while he 
wondered would that blood-written cry for help never be seen by 
sympathetic eye, never enter a generous ear? 

The five-pound note lay a long time in the strong-box of 
Ibrahaim Ben Edin. Sometimes he took it out and looked at it. 

“ It is a pity, Yusef, that this scrap of paper lies here in the 
place of five good pieces of gold.” 

“ Oh, master, my wisdom would be to get the gold instead 
thereof.” 

“But, Yusef, I read danger in its ugly appearance. This 
crumpled, gray paper, unblessed by the name of Allah, suggests 
to me destruction. If I sent it abroad, who knows but that artful 
Christian has breathed a curse upon it ?” 

“ In that case, Son of Splendor, I would burn it.” 

te Then I am lacking the five pieces of gold, and to waste gold 
is a sin sufficient to close the door of Paradise. But your advice 


HE LOSES HIS LADY-LOVE. 


175 


is good, child of wisdom, and I always follow it ; therefore 1 will 
send the paper forth and get the gold for it. For if it is the will 
of Allah, and written in the decrees of fate, that by that bit of 
paper I am to arrive at destruction, it is idle to try to prevent it.” 

The use of the bank-note having been determined upon, 
Ibrahaim, with characteristic Turkish slowness, waited six months 
for a favorable opportunity to send it abroad, and Jasper Fitzroy 
had been for three years relying on this note for help before it 
passed out of the clutches of Ibrahaim. During all that time no 
loop-hole for escape offered to his closest observation. No prison 
ever held a state prisoner more closely than this domain of 
Ibrahaim Ben Edin held his captives. 

Finally, Yusef had business at Makri, and he took the bank- 
note on the chance of finding some English or French ship of 
which the captain would give him gold for paper. 

He found a bark of Genoa, and the Italian captain took the bank- 
note. 

This captain, returned to Genoa, gave it to an English mate. 

The mate, being a dutiful son, presented this five-pound note to 
his mother. 

The mother, being a prudent woman, had resolved that she 
would lay up five pounds for her own burial expenses, so that if 
death overtook her while her son was .absent, she would in nowise 
be beholden to the parish for a funeral. 

Thus the malign fates which pursued Jasper Fitzroy and Sam 
Porter decreed that the paper from which so much was hoped 
should be shut up in the box of a purblind old lady, who merely 
looked at it once in a month or two, to be sure that it was there. 
And yet this important bank-note was not two miles from Myra 
Barth, who would have gladly given hundreds of pounds for it, 
and who had the will and the power to fly to the relief of the 
captive of Ibrahaim Ben Edin. 

The sight of this note would have drawn Myra from sorrow and 
from solitude — a solitude nearly unbroken, for Myra had never 
formed any intimacy with the Contessa Idria. 

The shadow hanging over her life rendered her averse to the 
presence of strangers. 

She saw Natolie frequently, as she and Mi were much 
together. 

To Myra came Mi running one day, crying : 


176 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ Oh, Miss Barth ! Something terrible must have happened 
at Bidebank Lodge; for I went there just now, and I heard the 
contessa crying and screaming, and the maids were crying, and 
the servants said I could not see Natolie, for she was with her 
mother, and they were in trouble.” 

Of course, Miss Barth at once sent a servant to ask if she 
could be of any assistance to the contessa , but received a nega- 
tive reply. 

It was from the ever-busy Wrigley that the news first came. 

“ Well, the Lodge will be empty soon. The contessa has given 
it up.” 

“ What has happened?” 

“ She has lost her property. It was not very much, I suppose, 
but enough for her and her child. But it is all lost — and she is 
leaving.” 

Wrigley was not sorry that the contessa was leaving. Lady 
Bidebank and Rupert might come home any day, and it would 
be well that Mi, who was blooming into a very pretty girl, should 
find herself without a rival. 

Myra, not deaf to the call of compassion, though disliking 
society, hastened to Bidebank Lodge. 

Could she be of any service to the contessa ? A loan, say, of a 
few hundred pounds, without interest, at the contessa's conven- 
ience ? Miss Barth would really be laid under obligations by its 
acceptance. Or, would the contessa come to Barth Hall on a 
visit of a year or so ? Mi would be vastly benefited by having a 
companion in study, and in the course of time the contessa 
might find her affairs in better case than she thought. 

But the proud contessa declined all these offers. 

She said there would be no better phase of her affairs. She 
had been robbed, ruined, by her husband’s relatives. It only re- 
mained for herself and Natolie to go into lodgings in London, 
and maintain themselves, like many other fallen gentlewomen, 
by teaching. They could teach French, Italian, music, drawing, 
fancy-work, very many things — and they should hide themselves 
and their sorrows and economies. 

The contessa even declined to give her future address. She 
thought it would be better for herself and Natolie if they lost 
themselves to all former friends and more luxurious days, and 
shut themselves into their own narrow round of work-a-day life. 


HE LOSES HIS LADY-LOVE. 


177 


It might have been a foolish view, but it was a natural view to 
proud and sensitive women, hiding their mortifications from the 
world. 

And so the servants of Bidebank Lodge were paid and dis- 
missed. Certain articles were sold ; others were packed and sent 
off ; and the contessa and her sixteen-year-old daughter went away 
in a cab, no one knew w’hither. 

Natolie and Mi had a farewell meeting in the woods. Mi cried 
convulsively; she always cried with all her heart when anything 
troubled her. 

She clung to Natolie and begged her to take half of every- 
thing belonging to her, and henceforth always to share her 
pocket-money. 

But Natolie never shed a tear. 

“We shall never meet again,” she said to Mi; “our ways 
now lie far apart. I shall be but a daily governess, or may be 
even a fine seamstress. I shall always love you, but it is best 
for mamma and for me to fight our way alone, hidden from all 
we have ever known and loved. It will be less hard.” 

“ But what will Rupert say when he comes back and finds you 
lost ?” cried Mi. 

“He will not mind. He has been gone two years; by this 
time he will have forgotten.” 

“No one could ever forget you , Natolie!” cried the admiring 
and unselfish Mi, looking at her taller companion, who stood like 
some beautiful nymph in the shadow of the woods. 

“ He will have forgotten,” said Natolie — who in truth did not 
believe that he would — and she inconsistently added : “ And you, 
golden-headed English primrose, you must console him.” 

And so Natolie went away, and it was from the letters of Miss 
Barth that Rupert and Lady Bidebank learned that the contessa 
had met losses and had gone away, no one knew where. 

“ She will write to me herself,” said her ladyship. And so she 
and the boy waited a long while, and no letters came. 

“ Let us go back and look for them,” cried Rupert. “I shall 
never be happy unless I find Natolie. Oh, I love her, and I was 
sure I should have her for my wife! Come, let us go back and 
find them !” 

However, her ladyship was not well enough to go back, and 
she told Rupert that Lawyer Mellodew should be instructed to 


78 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


look up the lost ones, while they themselves concluded their time 
of travel. 

Mr. Mellodew set himself to search for the Idrias. His search 
proved merely how easily people can lose themselves in London. 

A change of name, a change of dress, a change of locale , and 
one is lost amid the myriads of toilers for bread who in London 
live in lodgings. 

The proud contessa would not darken the lofty name of Idria by 
wearing it while she took wages. She f*ell back on the name of 
the English portion of her ancestry, and that happened to be 
Montgomery. Now Montgomerys are not few in the United 
Kingdom, and under the shadow of that wide-spreading name 
the contessa and Natolie set down in lodgings in Birdcage Walk, 
Bethuel Green — lodgings over a baker’s shop — and there they 
sewed and painted and copied and taught for a living. 


CHAPTER XX. 

ANOTHER ILL TURN OF FORTUNE. 

Sir James Wrigley, M. P., albeit with a very discontented face, 
was walking around the Barth estate. The estate was goodly, 
and growing goodlier in its values every year as great London 
stretched nearer and nearer to it. 

Wrigley, as he walked, mused that one day this estate would 
be his and his heirs. Ah, when that day came, how they would 
roll in gold ! What a princely fortune was accumulating during 
the quiet and careful life of “ my cousin” This expectation 
surely did not make Wrigley sad. It was hope deferred that 
sickened his face. Would that woman never die? Meaning 
Miss Barth, who had educated all his children; who was providing 
for “Our Eldest,” and making a man of him ; who had just 
bought a lieutenancy for “Our Second ;” who had promised the 
rich family living to “Our Third,” now a theological sprig in 
Oxford; who was foster-mother to “Our Mi.” 

But there are some Christian breasts as ignorant of the grace 
of gratitude as that Turk, Ibrahaim Ben Edin. 

As Wrigley walked, his head thrust forward, his eyes lowered, 


ANOTHER ILL TURN OF FORTUNE. 


179 


his lean, restless fingers clasped behind him, up, apparently 
from the ground at his feet, rose that son of mischief, Tony 
Pettigrew. 

“ Tony ! What brings you here ?” 

“Which it are my conscience,” said Tony, feelingly. 

“ Bah ! That means that you want to leech me of money. 
It’s no go, Tony. I hold the whip-hand over you. I can give 
you and your misdeeds over to the court. And you know you 
admitted to Miss Barth that you stole that baby. And she ’ll re- 
member you, Tony, long as it is. She has an eye like an eagle. 
Zounds 1 I don’t know but the very best thing I can do is just 
to hand you over to justice.” 

“Do it, then,” said Tony, with a remarkable assumption of 
misery and self-surrender. “ I don’t care. I ’m that miserable 
I believe it would be a relief to my mind just to swear it all out 
to the court — all our doings — yours and mine, sir.” 

“ Bah ! Who ’d believe what you say about me?” 

“Mebby they wouldn’t. I don’t care if they don’t,” persisted 
Tony. “ It would feel good to make a clean breast of it. And I 
could have the satisfaction, sir — while ending of my mis’able, 
wicked days — to think that I ’d done right, and that that boy 
had got his own again, and that Miss Barth had her dear little 
brother back.” 

“ What /” roared the doctor. 

Tony dropped his eyelids as he saw that his shot had told. 

“ Why this is what : I ain’t no fool. I have laid this and that 
together. I think that boy won’t get far out o’ his true name, if 
he just drops the Bidebank and keeps to Rupert Barth.” 

“ You confounded, driveling fool !” 

“No, I ain’t such a fool — not a werry great one. Didn’t you 
want that Barth boy put out o’ the way just as soon as he come 
to this ’ere wicked world? What call, sir, have you to care what 
Lady Bidebank do with a boy ! Why, none. But it ’s a deal 
to you whether there ’s a likely boy to inherit Barth. I smelt 
that out a good while ago, and I see every day, clearer nor 
comets, as how it don’t pay me to hold my tongue.” 

“You are all wrong, Tony — very much mistaken. I could 
show you that in two minutes if I tried. I see how it is, my poor 
fellow. Trouble and poverty have turned your head. I am sorry 
for you. I have always been a friend to you — and now, if I only 


i8o 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


knew what was pressing on you, I 'd be willing to help you — I 
really would.” 

“ I s’pose you know better nor me, sir,” said Tony with a 
sudden meekness — not feeling half so sure of his ground about 
the Barth boy as he pretended — “but I ’ve no objections to ex- 
plainin' to a friend what's working me up. Poverty 's one thing 
— when a man is down to his last shillin’ he 's apt to be down in 
the mouth, too — ain’t it so, sir ? But the heaviest thing on me, 
sir — is my wife.” 

“ How 's that, Tony ? She earns her own living, I fancy ?” 

“Oh, sir, 't ain’t the wally o’ what goes into her mouth I ’m 
repinin’ over, but the weight of what comes out of it. Sir — there’s 
no end, sir, to that woman’s tongue. Don’t talk o’ a mill-stream, 
nor yet o’ a locomotvve, nor yet o’ a mail-coach. It’s just per- 
petooal motion. There ’s no end to Mrs. Pettigrew. Now, sir, 
if I wasn’t of the same cut, of course, it could be stood. She 
could go on, and I could keep silent. But, sir, the two of us is just 
one too many. She goes it, and I go it. She ’s a wollybul, and 
I ’m wollybul, and it would take a Solyman to tell which went it 
wurst, and a howling dervish to beat either of us. You see for 
yourself, sir, when I get onct agoin’ I can’t stop. How long have 
I been goin’ now, if you» please, sir?” 

“ A long time,” said Wrigley, wearily. 

“ Well, she goes a long time the same. She goes fast, and I 
go faster. Then we runs a race, an’ comes out neck and neck. 
She talks loud, and I talk louder. Then she yells, and I 
scream ; and such a din, sir, never was before. To do it makes 
your throat ache; to hear it makes your ears ache. Now. sir, 
I could stand my throat aching, but to have the ears, too — oh, 
that ’s too much ! It robs a man o’ vitality, sir, never to get no 
rest l” 

“ Except when he ’s asleep,” interposed the doctor. 

“It’s my belief,” retorted Tony, “that Mrs. Pettigrew and 
me yells and goes on at each other when we is asleep ; for, for 
my part, I feel just as tired when I get up as when I go to 
bed.” 

“ Well, what am I to do about it?” 

“ There, now you puts the polish on it, if one may so say; and 
when you trims it down to a nice, fine point. Why, sir, you ’re 
to give me twenty poun’ to build me up after these many 


ANOTHER ILL TURN OF FORTUNE. l8l 

aggrawations, and you ’re to take Mrs. Pettigrew off my hands, 
and keep her off.” 

“ Only that !” cried the doctor, furiously. “ Only that, Tony ?” 

“ Only that,” said Mr. Pettigrew, doggedly, “ or else, sir, I 
know just what I shall do. I shall fly to the arms of the court to 
escape Mrs. Pettigrew. I shall take refuge in a prison-cell. I 
shall abandon my — own — dear — native — land — Britannia — rules 
— the — waves, and be a’ exile in penal settlements be ; and if so 
1 could take you along with me, sir, so as not to be ’mong — 
strangers — and — poleces — long — may — I — roam, all by myself, 
so much the better for me.” 

“ But what could I do with Mrs. Pettigrew, Tony?” 

tc Stick her and the boy in some little house and give her a 
small allowance and plenty of work, and she ’ll do your work. 
She’s sharp, is Mrs. Pettigrew; what she don’t know ain’t worth 
knowing.” 

“ And what will you engage to do in that case?” 

“ Oh, I ’ll go off and never come back.” 

“ How shall I be sure of that, Tony?” 

“ Sure ! Just you keep Mrs. Pettigrew near you, and I won’t 
come near you no more than if she were a mad dog?” 

“ Still, I do not see what I can do with her,” said Wrigley. 

“ Never fear; Mrs. Pettigrew is up to anything,” said Tony, 
boasting his wares to get them off his hands. “ She can nuss 
sick people, an’ keep house, an’ do lots o’ things.” 

After all, she might be made useful, and there was a little, 
one-roomed cabin on the edge of the Fitzroy estate where he 
could persuade Myra to put a protegee of his, as an act of charity. 

Thus was Tony Pettigrew delivered from his wife for the time 
being. 

Among the few possessions Mrs. Tony brought into her new 
abode was a well-wrapped parcel, now for nearly three years the 
object of her constant solicitude — a purple-morocco case with 
Lady Bidebank’s monogram. The woman expected to live until 
this should become valuable to her. 

With Mrs. Pettigrew came to Fitzroy Towers her son, a young 
cub bent on poaching, between whom and the game-keeper 
presently arose difficulty ; and the head gamekeeper assured Miss 
Barth that she had made a mistake in letting a pair of tramps 
get a footing on the estate ; for this boy was bound to go to the 


182 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


convict settlements. In fact, the Pettigrews, mother and son, 
had not been in their new quarters six months before affairs 
came to a crisis. 

Miss Barth had gone to Fitzroy Towers to overlook the busi- 
ness connected with the estate. She was accompanied by Mi, 
and they were in a room fitted up in the steward’s house for Miss 
Barth’s audience-room on such occasions. 

Here the gamekeeper, red and hot, dragged in young Petti- 
grew, loud-mouthed and tearful, taken red-handed in the act of 
poaching — a hare held in one dirty, brown fist and a pheasant in 
the other. 

“ Which I tell you, my lady,” said the gamekeeper, conclud- 
ing his accusation, “jail is far too good for he ; it are, indeed.” 

Myra, indignantly regarding this intruder on her preserves, 
looked like an awful embodiment of justice; but at her right 
hand stood mercy in the graceful form of Mi. 

Mi felt an unaccountable compassion toward this sturdy, 
ragged, dirty boy — the Ishmael of Fitzroy Towers. 

“ Poor fellow !” she cried. “ I dare say he has never had a 
chance to do better.” 

“And axin’ your pardon, miss, what chance should he have? 
He knows them ain’t his. Why don’t he let ’em alone ?” replied 
the gamekeeper. 

“I know what I’d do with him,” said Mi, resting her dim- 
pled arm on her cousin’s desk, and propping her fair head on 
her hand. 

“ And what is that?” asked Miss Barth, who in her secret, soul 
felt that this young rascal had perhaps had little chance to be 
better than he was. 

“I’d have him scrubbed and barbered and put in a keeper’s 
suit, and I ’d make him gamekeeper’s boy; and if he ’s fond of 
animals I ’d give him some to take care of ; and I ’d pay him his 
wages every Saturday night ; and then, boy, I think you ’d be- 
have yourself.” 

“ Oh, wouldn’t I, my lady !” cried the culprit. “Just you see ! 
Mr. Gamekeeper shouldn’t never have a word’s fault to find 
along of me.” 

“ And I ’m tired of my six rabbits,” said Mi, “ and of my fancy 
pigeons ; and if you ’d §end them here for him tQ qa , re of, 

50 usm—’* 


ANOTHER ILL TURN OF FORTUNE. 1 83 

The gamekeeper eyed the boy and the plan with great dis- 
favor. 

“ We ’ll take him over to Barth to be your game-keeper, Mi,” 
said Miss Barth. “ Very likely the men there, where he has not 
made a bad name for himself, can get on better with him.” 

Therefore when Mi returned that evening with her cousin in 
the pony phaeton, Miss Barth driving, Mi’s new henchman, 
girding a bit of rope tightly about his loins, ran tirelessly on, keep- 
ing up with the little carriage, and proud to open the gate when 
they came to Barth. 

Mi was now past seventeen. 

It was autumn — the autumn after Rupert was eighteen. 

Lady Bidebank was talking of returning home. 

Her ladyship and Rupert were at Bonn, and had started with 
a party to walk up the Kreutzberg. Lady Bidebank, leaning on 
Rupert’s arm, walked more slowly than the rest. 

“ And in six weeks w r e shall be in England,” she said. 

“And I may then search for Natolie, until I find her?” said 
Rupert. “ I can find her, if Mr. Mellodew cannot. And then — I 
shall marry her.” 

“Not before you are twenty-one — and that is too early,” said 
Lady Bidebank, smiling. 

“ But if she comes to Bidebank Hall soon, why so much the 
longer for us to wait on you and make you happy,” urged Rupert. 

“You must wait until you are twenty-one, Rupert, and mean- 
time we must choose some line of life for you. I do not want 
you in the army. I shall get you some office under government. 
Something in the Foreign Office, perhaps.” 

They walked on in silence. 

“And all that I have is yours — willed to you,” said her lady- 
ship, presently. 

And now they were at the top of the hill. Below them, by all 
the winding paths, set with shrines, pilgrims were winding up 
toward the beauty of the central shrine on the summit. Lady 
Bidebank’s friends were sitting on the benches near this marble 
pavilion, and to one of these seats Rupert led his adopted mother. 

The lovely autumn woods, the smiling skies, the quaint and 
varied dresses of the worshiping peasants, the beauty of the 
marble faces and the solemn sweetness of the strains of music; 
pouring from the chapel engrossed them, 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


184 


“ Shall we go in there ?” said Rupert to Lady Bidebank. 

She did not answer him. 

“ Are you very tired ? Was the walk too much for you ?” 

He turned and touched her. 

But no answer should come to him ever again from her. Lady 
Bidebank sat there, dead. Her hand was lying in Rupert’s. 

And thus his third mother had died — at his side. 

They came back to Bidebank Hall — Mr. Mellodew and one or 
two distant relations — and Lord Bidebank’s son and his tutor 
accompanied the body, with Rupert. 

Lord Bidebank was at the hall in a state of lofty regret proper 
to the occasion. 

He regarded with serenity Rupert dressed in the deepest mourn- 
ing and overcome with grief. 

Rupert was an interloper in the family. 

His birth was low and dubious. 

His past conduct had shown exceedingly bad taste. He had 
been the means of separating Lady Bidebank from her nearest 
friends. 

Lord Bidebank bowed to Rupert by the mere lifting of his eye- 
brows. 

All the family assembled chose to look on him as a culprit 
and, in some occult fashion, guilty of her ladyship’s death. 

“ If she had remained at home she would have lived ten years 
longer,” asserted Lord Bidebank. 

Myra and Mi were the only friends that greeted him. Myra 
was warm and sympathizing; Mi very sympathetic and very shy.. 

Rupert ielt himself ostracized and a culprit arraigned and con- 
demned at the family bar. 

And yet if it had not been for this adopted son — this heart- 
broken boy, who followed her to her grave — Lady Bidebank 
would have had scarcely one real mourner. 

“ And so,” said the paternal Wrigley to his pretty daughter, 
“ your young lover has returned. Do you find him changed?” 

“ He is not my lover,” said Mi, with flaming cheeks. 

“ And why not, pray?” 

“ Because — because not, and he cares for Natolie — ” 

“ Natolie is lost and out of the way, and this young fellow will 
come in for all Lady Bidebank’s property, and no doubt the Bide- 
banks will do something for him. Don’t be a fool, child. Your 


ANOTHER ILL TURN OF FORTUNE. 185 

sisters are ugly, and being without dowry, they are not likely to 
marry ; but you must make the best match you can. So don’t 
let this lad slip through your fingers.” 

Poor Mi ! This was the first time she had been interviewed on 
love and marriage, and it was a rude lesson. Myra had never 
spoken to her on the subject, but she had lived what was very 
different before her. 

That Rupert was the heir no one doubted. 

Mr. Mellodew said to Lord Bidebank : 

“ I drew up her ladyship’s will some years ago. She left her 
fortune to her adopted son.” 

“ I suppose so,” said Lord Bidebank. “ It is a small matter. 
And yet the appearance of having it left out of the family— to a 
stranger — is bad, very bad. But Lady Bidebank was always ob- 
stinate and wrong-headed.” 

“ There were some bequests to the servants. Her books to 
Miss Barth. Her Sevres china to your daughter. The Bohemian 
glass to her ladyship, your wife. The jewels to be kept for 
Rupert’s wife, and the funds to him. I remember it all quite well. 
The will is at my office, and I will bring it here and read it after 
the funeral.” 

“Very well,” said Lord Bidebank, coldly. “And who were 
executors, guardians and so on ?” 

“I was to be executor; your lordship and Miss Barth, guard- 
ians; with a request that he should live at Miss Barth’s.” 

“ So much the better,” said my lord, grimly. 

And then, finally, there was the funeral. 

The Bidebanks had for ages been buried at a church on the 
estate, some six miles from the Hall. It was a humble little 
church, and the living was in Lord Bidebank’s gift, though the 
family — my lord always spoke of the family as if they were the one 
family in the world— worshiped at a more fashionable temple, 
and left this to the villagers and to the family dead. 

Thither, then, they carried her ladyship, and laid her in silence 
beside the last Lord Bidebank, and told the proper functionary 
what inscription to chisel on the blank half of the great marble 
scroll that marked where his lordship’s dust reposed. 

Then they returned to the Hall. There was a dinner ready, 
and every one but Rupert seemed to bring a good appetite to 
the funeral baked meat?, 


i86 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


The lad sat, forlorn and unnoticed, at one side of the board, 
while the company seemed regaining the elasticity of spirits 
which had been rather crushed by the presence of the undertaker 
and his men, clad in the paraphernalia of woe. 

After dinner the company adjourned to the great parlor, where 
it was understood that Mr. Mellodew was to read the will. 

Every one knew about what that would be. Rupert understood 
that he was provided for, but that was no solace. 

Mr. Mellodew took from his pocket a long envelope. He 
spoke with dignity : 

“ I have here the last will and testament of her late ladyship, 
drawn up by me at her dictation at such and such a time, and 
since kept by me at my office. The witnesses are here present.” 
Then he opened the envelope. He unfolded the paper. Slowly 
his eyes spread wider. 

His jaw fell. 

His complexion became a dull gray. 

A huskiness invaded his throat. 

Instead of the will he had in his hand, a letter — a letter from 
Lady Bidebank to Rupert : 

“ My dearest Boy — Y ou will read this when I am gone, and I wish you 
to know how well I loved you,” etc. 

“ My lord, gentlemen and ladies, here is a mistake,” stammered 
Mr. Mellodew. “ This is not the will. Another paper has been 
put in here by mistake. Now, where is the will?” 

“If no will can be found,” said Lord Bidebank, “of course 
her ladyship will be regarded as intestate, and the entire prop- 
erty will go to the family.” 

“ But, sir, she certainly made a will in favor of Rupert.” 

“ Let it be produced,” said Lord Bidebank, stiffly. 

“ The Hall and her ladyship’s papers must be carefully 
searched,” said Mr. Mellodew, distractedly. 


ON HIS OWN RESOURCES. 


187 


CHAPTER XXL 

ON HIS OWN RESOURCES. 

Though Mrs. Tony Pettigrew had been established on the 
Fitzroy estate, her interest centered at Bidebank. To the woman 
accustomed to long tramps, the miles that lay between the two 
estates were a mere bagatelle, and she soon made her appearance 
at the Hall. As Tony had said, his wife’s genius was versatile; 
and while she had been the most rampant and dirty of basket- 
women, she went to Bidebank well washed and combed, in all the 
glory of a clean gown and a neat cap. 

Strong and shrewd, Mrs. Tony ingratiated herself with house- 
keeper, cook and laundress, and speedily found various little 
employments at the Hall. 

Thus it happened that, as soon as news came that the body of 
Lady Bidebank was to be brought home, Mrs. Pettigrew was 
summoned as one of the extra hands required for the occasion. 

While the family upstairs are all eagerness and wonderment 
about the will no one guesses that below stairs this stranger 
among the servants is quivering with anxiety and excitement on 
the same subject. No eye more keen, no ear more alert than 
Mrs. Tony’s — and she seemed ubiquitous, finding work in all 
parts of the house at once. 

During the first silence that fell after Mr. Mellodew had found 
that the paper in his hand was not her ladyship’s will, he 
handed the letter to Rupert. 

The little company in the parlor separated and Rupert almost 
instinctively withdrew to a place that had been a favorite seat 
with his adopted mother. This seat was in a large bay-window 
divided from the library by heavy, double, silk curtains. Here 
Rupert threw himself on a sofa, and pressing the letter to his lips, 
he read and reread it. Thinking of all he had lost in this gener- 
ous lady, recalling her tender love for him, repenting that he had 
so grieved her by his boyish elopement, Rupert buried his head 
in the sofa pillow and burst into an agony of weeping. 

For some time he was oblivious of all that passed around him. 

After a while he realized that voices were conversing near hini 


V 


l88 A SLEEP-WALKER. 

and that Mr. Mellodew was speaking with his lordship in the 
library. 

The cold, curt tones of Lord Bidebank first came clearly to 
his ear. 

“ I have given orders that all of her ladyship’s desks and papers 
shall be searched under your direction. Of course, if the will is 
found, I abide by it, though I consider it the product of a dis- 
eased mind. I have always disapproved of that boy and have 
desired to have him out of the family. Even if the will had been 
found I should have declined to act as guardian and should have 
requested him to leave, at his earliest convenience, a home where 
he has no claim to stay.” 

“ But, my lord — if the will is not found, when I can tell you so 
clearly what is in it — will you not make some settlement on the 
lad, out of the estate of her late ladyship?” 

*‘Not a pound! The other bequests which you may recall 
I will honor. But nothing for him.” 

“ Your lordship’s influence could do much to help him — and 
he is a very fine lad — on in life. Out of your friendship for your 
deceased aunt — ” 

“ Not one word more, Mr. Mellodew. My aunt’s affection for 
this interloper was the bane of my life. I wash my hands of him. 
If the will is found, let him take what it gives him, except myself 
for a guardian. That I refuse. For himself, he is here as an 
intruder, and that intrusion must be as short as possible. Come 
with me now, if you please, and you shall have her ladyship’s 
keys and maid and my secretary to aid this search. A fruitless 
one, I predict. Her ladyship doubtless saw her folly and burned 
the will when she found it.” 

The gentlemen left the library. 

Stung to the quick, Rupert, with flaming cheeks and blazing 
eyes, sprang to his feet. He would not trespass another hour an 
Lord Bidebank’s hospitality. 

He rushed to his room. With trembling hands he packed the 
few articles which had been unpacked since he returned from the 
continent. He then rang for a footman and ordered him to 
give his boxes to whomever he should send for them ; and without 
a word of farewell or explanation, he walked off toward London, 
carrying his portmanteau in his hand, his heart swelling with 
mingled grief and rage. 


ON HIS OWN RESOURCES. 189 

Arrived at Bidebank gate, having gone out of his way to look 
once more at the lodge, formerly made bright by the presence 
of the lost Natolie, Rupert met a very clean and shock-headed 
boy, dressed in a suit of corduroys, who begged leave to carry 
the portmanteau. 

This was no other than Master Pettigrew, who had been 
started toward the Hall with a letter from Miss Barth, but who 
thought it no harm to tarry by the way to pick up an honest 
penny. This hopeful accompanied Rupert for a mile, until they 
came to a cab, which Sir Rupert engaged to carry him to the city. 

Great was the excitement that evening in the servants’ hall at 
Bidebank. A perfect babel of voices, discussing recent events, 
rose round the long table. 

Her ladyship’s will was lost. Lawyer Mellodew said it had 
given all to Master Rupert; but now Master Rupert was gone 
and was to have nothing. 

“ Won’t Lord Bidebank do something for him ?” asked one. 

“ Not he !” cried the tallest footman. “ Lord Bidebank ’ates 
he for bein’ a foundling.” 

“ But he ’s a werry nice young gentleman,” sighed the 
laundry-maid. “I never see as handsome.” 

“Lord Bidebank don’t want the young master to have the 
money, do he ?” spoke up Mrs. Pettigrew. 

“Certain not,” said the cook. “ Thirty thousand poun’ less 
for his children, and land knows there ’s plenty of them ; and, 
moreover, he hates young master.” 

“Then he may be sorry if the will is found.” 

“Why, on course he’ll be sorry,” said the cook. 

“ And maybe,” continued Mrs. Pettigrew, “ if he should find 
it — say in a book or in a secret drawer, as they do in penny- 
dreadfuls — why, he ’d burn it.” 

“What !” roared the butler. “ Mrs. Pettigrew, it ’s quite plain 
to be seen that you don’t belong to the family, to mention of Lord 
Bidebank’s burning a will ! His lordship, Mrs. Pettigrew, is a 
honorable gentleman, and he ’d show the will and abide by it, if 
it went against him ever so.” 

“On course, he would,” said the head laundress; “if it was 
pins and needles to him, he ’d abide by law. He may be a hard 
man, and he may have his dislikes; but where you says Bide- 
bank you suggests honor, so you do.” 


190 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“An’ it’s werry dangerous to burn willses,” said the laundry- 
maid, sighing again. “ If he did that he might get tried for — 
for bigamy.” 

“Hold your tongue!” screamed the cook. “You silly jade, 
much you know what you are talking about, to name bigamy and 
him — a member of the peers !” 

“But it’s just like a story in a book,” urged Mrs. Tony, 
“and I feel to romance over it, and keep wondering if things 
should happen as they do in stories. Why, suppose, now, some 
one had found the will — Mrs. Cook, now, for instance — and 
should take it to his ludship, what would he do ?” 

“Do !” said Mrs. Cook, scornfully. “He’d give it to Mr. 
Mellodew ; but I ’d not take my oath that he ’d not be my forever 
and everlastin’ enemy, and that he might not clear me out with 
a month’s wages and no warning, for finding what he did not 
like.” 

“That would be just about him,” said my lord’s valet, nod- 
ding approbation of this estimate of character. 

“ And how old may Mr. Rupert be?” asked Mrs. Tony. 

“ He ’s about nineteen,” said the butler. “And in two years 
he ’d be of age to inherit. He would be ravin’ glad if the will 
was found by that.” 

“If it is not found now, with all this search, it never will be,” 
said the cook. 

“ There ’s queer things happens in this world,” said Mrs. P. 

“ Not outside o’ stories, as ever I see,” said the butler. 

Mrs. Pettigrew lay awake nearly all night. She was discussing 
how she had better make her fortune. 

If she found the will, for instance, and carried it to Lord Bide- 
bank, was he likely to reward her? His valet, who probably 
knew him best, said not. 

Suppose she carried the will, z/'she found it, to Rupert; then 
would he reward her? Hardly very heavily just now. 

But suppose she saved it up until he was of age and sold it to 
him as high as a thousand pounds? Ah ! After two years’ fight 
with the world he would be glad to buy fortune at that price — 
and silence. 

Mrs. Tony thought she could afford to wait. 

While Mrs. Tony was thus considering with herself, and in 
agonies lest a will should be found by the servants in their search 


ON HIS OWN RESOURCES. 


191 


— for who knew how many wills had been made? — Lawyer Mel- 
lodew walked over to Barth House to tell Miss Barth what had 
* happened. 

“ I sent a servant over this afternoon,” said Myra, “to ask 
Rupert to come at once to me, telling him the promise I had given 
to Lady Bidebank, and what her wishes were. He must have 
the letter by this time. Still, he is unusually proud and sensitive, 
and I thin^, after this new disaster, you had better see him 
early in the morning and tell him that I desire more than ever 
that he should come to me.” 

“As for the will,” said Mr. Mellodew, “I blame myself bit- 
terly for what has happened, while I cannot in the least explain 
it. I remember that a good many sheets of paper were on the 
table, and I have an indistinct recollection of her ladyship’s writ- 
ing something, and it seems as if I saw her folding papers and 
sealing envelopes.” 

“ The two documents were mixed, probably,” said Myra ; “ but 
you can rely on it, if any Bidebanks ever find the will, it will be 
delivered up at once. ‘ Honest if hard ’ should be their es- 
cutcheon.” 

The next morning Rupert’s departure was known, but not 
where he had gone. 

Again Mr. Mellodew hurried with news to Miss Barth. 
Wrigley was there and secretly elate. 

“ What more could he expect?” cried J. Wrigley, M. P. “ Her 
ladyship has done all that is reasonable. Now what harm is there 
in letting him go to carve his own way ? Other boys have to 
do that — my own sons, for instance.” 

Myra paced up and down the room. She looked not at Wrig- 
ley, but over him. 

“I wanted him to come here,” she cried. “I promised that 
this should be his home and that I would take her place. Mr. 
Mellodew, pray find him.” 

“ My cousin, this is madness,” remonstrated Wrigley. “ Could 
you undertake to provide for him without really injuring your 
own nearest relatives? And to have a young man like that, 
without fortune or friends or antecedents or prospects, thrown 
into daily communication with my daughter Mi, I really, as a 
careful father, should object to it.” 

“He must be found!” cried Myra, passionately. “Every in- 


192 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


stant he becomes more important to me. The city of London is 
a hard place for a stranger to earn his bread and ^ dangerous 
place for an unfriended young man. Almost as dangerous for 
him now as if he were little and could be put with a baby- 
farmer /” 

Having relieved her mind by this outburst, and having the 
satisfaction of seeing her favorite enemy shrink smaller and creep 
out of the room, Myra recovered her calmness and pranged with 
Mr. Mellodew that Rupert should be speedily hunted up. 

Meantime, Rupert, rattling toward the city in a cab, had time 
to consider his condition. 

He had fifty pounds in his pocket. 

Of course, the first thing would be to go to a hotel. He told 
the driver to go to a hotel. 

“ What one ?” asked the driver. 

“ I ’m sure I don’t know,” said Rupert. “ I have not been liv- 
ing near here lately.” 

“ Pretty high-priced ?” asked cabby. “ The Langham ?” 

“ Something low-priced, but respectable,” said Rupert. 

“Nigh the railroads? S’pose I try the Canon Street?” 

“Not near the railroads; a quiet place. I am looking for 
business.” 

The cabby eyed the elegant mourning-suit and gave a low 
whistle. 

“Why not take lodgings, sir? There’s an aunt of my wife’s 
keeps*a tidy lodging-house for single gents over in Hare Street, 
Bethuel Green. I wouldn’t mention it, only it ’s the right sort, 
and there you are at reasonable rates, sir, and not so far from all 
the business, though you don’t seem a business gent, sir. More 
like a high-flyer.” 

“You can drive to your aunt’s, and I’ll have a look at it,” 
said Rupert, attracted to lodgings as the surest way of losing 
himself. 

The lodgings, a sitting-room and bed-closet at ten shillings a 
week, proved to be unobjectionable. 

“ And, sir, if you are not used to perviding for yourself,” said 
cabby, “ you ’d better let my aunt get you a breakfast. She ’ll 
do the fair thing for you at nine-pence, sir, and get your dinners 
out.” 

This appeared reasonable advice, and Rupert further agreed 


ON HIS OWN RESOURCES. 


193 


with cabby to go and bring his boxes, which were accordingly 
removed from Bidebank Hall next morning while Mr. Mellodew 
was with Miss Barth ; the footman, being of Bidebank interests, 
not troubling himself to ask whither the property was going. 

Thus Rupert was a fourth time lost to his friends, who were 
soon anxiously looking for him. 

His distress, however, was not for his friends, for in the youth- 
ful moroseness occasioned by his troubles he began to doubt if he 
had one left; but his anxiety was to find employment. For this 
he ransacked the city. 

At last, by sheer persistency, he obtained the promise of a for- 
eign correspondent’s position in a large wholesale house, pro- 
vided he could bring a good recommendation. 

Where could he get such ? 

Having agreed to furnish what was demanded, he strolled up 
and down Cheapside, fighting with his disinclination to renew old 
acquaintances, when his eye fell on a copy of the Times , with 
this advertisement conspicuously placed : 

“Rupert B. B. is earnestly prayed to call on G. Mellodew, attorney- 
at-law,” etc., etc. 

“ There ?” cried Rupert to himself, drawing a deep breath. 
“ I dare say the will is found I” 

Off he started for Mr. Mellodew’s office, building, all the way, 
bright air-castles. He would take the lawyer’s advice about a 
proper investment of his money and getting into business ; he 
would search for Natolie; he would find her. After a time, they 
would be married, and they two and the Contessa Idria would 
have a pleasant little box of a home in one of the nicest suburbs 
and would be happy ever after. 

These joyful thoughts, like golden chariots, bore him along to 
the appointed spot apd lo — Mr. Mellodew 1” 

The lawyer shook him heartily by the hand. 

“Come to book, my young friend? That’s right! You do 
have the most singular fashion of losing yourself! Miss Barth is 
after you this time. She wants you. She is your guardian, you 
know.” 

“Not unless the will is found,” said Rupert. 

“ Well, more ’s -the pity, the will is not found. But Miss 
Barth wants y’ out at her house, and will be able to put you in 
business.” 


i 9 4 


A SLEEP-WALKER, 


“ She is kind,” said Rupert, stiffly; “but I have been a de- 
pendent on the bounty of strangers all my life. I am now too 
old for that. I shall use my education for my own support. I 
have a place offered me at a very decent salary — and with your 
recommendation I can get it.” 

The lawyer argued some time, but Rupert would only send 
his thanks and regards to Miss Barth. 

He said for the present he wished to see no one of his old 
acquaintances. He meant to live very humbly and save up his 
money. He had an object in view. 

Then, as he was going off with the lawyer’s testimonial in his 
favor, he returned, and, flushing and hesitating, asked if he had 
ever heard anything of the Contessa Idria and her daughter. 

“ Not a word,” said Mr. Mellodew. 

“ And have you given up the search ?” asked Rupert. 

“Yes, pretty much. There is nothing to go on. But if you 
wish me to continue it and will keep coming here to inquire, why, 
I ’ll continue looking.” 

“ If you have anything to tell me at any time,” said Rupert, 
“ advertise for me as you did to-day, and I will come.” 

Nothing would prevail on him to give up his address. He only 
admitted that he would, out of love for his adopted mother, keep 
the name she had given him. The boy was morbid. He had 
no name, no family, no friends near to him. He had lost his 
mother. He had lost the girl whom he loved. He had lost his 
expected fortune. He had lost his place in society. He desired 
only to hide himself from everybody. And yet, with the elasticity 
of youth, he began to dream dreams as he took his way to the 
wholesale house with Mr. Mellodew’s recommendation. He 
would work hard — so hard that he should rise in favor and in 
salary. He would live very economically, -so that he could save 
a large part of his salary. He would search for Natolie in all his 
leisure hours. By and by he would find her, and by industry and 
frugality he would yet be able to offer her a home. 

Shut up to the high stool by his desk in the back office, his 
only outlook a wall of windowed walls, rising toward four square 
yards of London sky, and living in this office from eight till 
five every day, save for the half-hour when he ran out to get a 
chop and a potato at noon, Rupert had very little time to look 
for Natolie. 


MRS. PETTIGREW’S MISERIES. 


195 


Hour after hour he read and wrote French, German, Italian 
and Spanish letters, while frequently he was called to serve as 
interpreter for captains or traders of these nationalities. 

The life he led was arduous in the extreme, especially from 
its contrast with the life he had led with Lady Bidebank, when he 
wandered here and there in Europe, luxuriously quartered, in- 
structed by his tutor, waited on with deference — a pocket full of 
money. 

His little room, first floor front, No. 8 Hare Street, with its 
dingy drugget and worn chintz chair covers, its spider-legged 
table and battered buffet hung oscillating to his fancy between 
the gorgeous rooms of the past with velvet, brocade, gold, -silver, 
books, pictures, all that money could buy, and those rooms he 
hoped to call his own some day. These rooms of the future 
would not be so rich as the home of the past, but over them that 
subtle charm of good taste which had beautified simplicity while 
the contessa lived at Bidebank Lodge should shine like the nim- 
bus of the gods. There he should find another mother in the 
contessa , and the light of love should hang over all, shed from 
the eyes of Natolie. These were the radiant visions which rose 
above and beyond his plodding at the office, and decked, as with 
pictures, the walls of his lodgings in Hare Street, Bethuel. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

MRS. PETTIGREW’S MISERIES. 

If Sir Rupert’s cabman had fallen into the hands of Mrs. Tony 
Pettigrew when he went for the boxes, he would not have escaped, 
unquestioned. It was the lofty footman who let him go unchal- 
lenged. • 

Mrs. Pettigrew did not realize that any one would leave such a 
magnificent home as the Hall for less than forcible ejection, and 
it never occurred to her that Rupert Barth Bidebank might dis- 
appear. 

The news broke upon her at supper time. 

“ The will,” said the upper housemaid, “aint to be found, and 
never can be found; and Mr. Rupert, he ’s given it up and gone — 
nobody knows where.” 


196 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ Mebby he ’s at Barth House,” suggested my lord’s page. 

“ No more he ain’t,” said the cook. “ Mr. Mellodew was rais- 
ing a dreadful breeze here this morning, because him and his 
boxes had got off, no one knew where, and they say it ’s the 
same at Barth. Miss Barth wanted him there, but he did not go.” 

“He’ll come back to see his friends,” suggested Mrs. Tony. 

“ Not he,” said the cook. 

And then Mrs. Pettigrew began to think that possibly the path 
through her future was not so very straight. 

She went to Barth House to pursue her inquiries, being there 
acquainted through her son. She had the good fortune to hear 
Ailsa holding forth to the housekeeper, in the room where they 
were sealing up preserves and jellies. 

“ Wae ’s me ! Here ’s anither trouble for me lassie. Ane after 
anither, she loses all she loves. She set great store on yon lad. 
An’ it were na’ for that full will o’ her auld grandsir, she might 
ha’ settled her property on one as pleased her. Not but I ’m 
aye hopin’ she ’ll marry and hae bairns o’ her ain runnin’ roun’ 
here, and not to be beset wi’ them clishmaclaverin Wrigleys till 
our verra last day abune groun’.” 

“ The eldest of the Wrigleys is not so bad, save for his father,” 
said the housekeeper, “and Miss Mi is an angel. Still it is 
true, Miss Wallace, that Lady Bidebank’s young gentleman would 
have been a master for this place, more to our minds than yon.” 

This talk suggested to Mrs. Pettigrew that failing to find Rupert 
himself, she might find, at the last moment, an ally in Miss 
Barth. 

With this on her mind, she came several times to Barth House, 
hoping to meet the mistress and find opportunity to open nego- 
tiations. But Miss Barth, met face to face, was a more terrible 
personage than as merely tenderly referred to by Ailsa as “her 
lassie.” Mrs. Pettigrew dared not address her. 

“ And is there no news from the young gentleman as got 
lost?” asked Mrs. Pettigrew of her son, when that hopeful was 
visiting her one Sabbath, and Sir Rupert had been months away. 
“ Don’t you mind, lad, he ’s the young swell as travelled with us 
for a year, so long ago, and made fun of you dressed in your tins ?” 

“Is that the one?” cried the son. 

“Yes, for sure; but you ’re not to hint it, lad, or Miss Barth 
would clean us out of this in a jiffy. She ’d blame us for his being 


MRS. PETTIGREW’S MISERIES. 


197 


with us. But that ’s him, awful handsome, with black eyes and 
curly hair.” 

“ So ! I mind I used to hate him. But he ’s got far pleasanter 
spoken, for I met him when he was making off, and he gave me a 
bob for carrying his bag to a cab.” 

“ And you never asked him where he was going ?” 

“He didn’t know himself, I reckon, for says he to cabby: 

1 To the city somewheres !’ I took him for a green cove,” added 
the astute Ishmaelite, chuckling. 

“ You were greener not to find out where he went.” 

“ So I was,” assented the son, readily, “ if that was the Bide- 
bank one. For Miss Barth would give me so high as a gold 
poun’ if I could ha’ set her on track o’ him. An’ as for Miss Mi, 
I ’d knock my head off to ’blige her any day. She are a angel.” 

“So if you remember the gent’s face, my lad, you’d better 
get a holiday now and then and spend it in the city looking of 
him up, and I ’ll give you a crown when found.” 

“ What’s it to you ?” demanded her son. 

“Charity — pure charity,” replied Mrs. Pettigrew. “I love 
him like a mother.” 

“And left him to die alone in a hut! I thought he did die 
there.” 

“ That was a little mistake,” returned Mrs. Pettigrew. 

As neither at Bidebank Hall nor Barth House any news could 
be obtained concerning Sir Rupert, by spring Mrs. Pettigrew 
suddenly bethought herself that very likely love for her late lady- 
ship might lead him to visit her grave at the church of St. 
Cleopas, and she set off on a stroll thither. 

She felt like a tramp once more, moving along the springy 
velvet turf, primroses and cowslips making all the waysides fair, 
and the April skies blue overhead, the April airs breathing balm. 
She took, unconsciously, the old tramp gait as she passed along 
the familiar ways. 

True to her old instincts, she avoided the highways and made a 
circuit. Here she passed the very stone hut where she and 
Tony had carried Sir Rupert when he was Royal the Tramp, and 
they had laid him down, reckoning his hours to be but few. 
She stepped into the hut to rest and to recall the past. It had 
been used during the interim for some purpose of storage, for 
the little window in which Timmy Titlow had thrus-t his head 


198 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


was bricked up, and the heavy door had been provided with fast- 
enings. 

She continued her way to the parish of St. CleOpas, and find- 
ing the sexton’s old wife in the little cottage next the church, 
asked leave to walk in the graveyard. Not that, like Hervey, she 
was given to pious “meditations among the tombs,” but she was 
paving the way to a talk with the old wife, and desired first to 
accustom her to a sight of herself. Having rambled through the 
place of graves and taken a look at the church, open for airing, 
she seated herself on a bench at the old wife’s door and meekly 
craved a drink of water. 

“I have an old aunt buried yon,” said Mrs. Pettigrew, lying 
with all the ease of confirmed habit, “ and I ’ve picked these 
sprigs of clover from her grave. It’s a bonnie place this you 
have, quiet, no neighbors near.” 

“ It’s too quiet,” said the woman, standing in the door with her 
knitting. “The village is nigh a mile off, and we have no life 
here, except Sabbath mornings, and by chance a marriage or a 
burial or a christening.” 

“Aye. The Bidebanks bury here. Them grand tombs is 
theirs in yon.” 

“ True it is. Her ladyship was the last one buried.” 

“ Wurra to me,” groaned Mrs. Pettigrew ; “I was servant in 
the house once ; when the adopted son was a baby. I loved him 
like my two eyes. I should well like to have one look at him. 
He must be a brave gentleman. Does he ever come to the 
graves here, good wife ?” 

“It’s your bad luck then not to have been here last Sabbath 
morning as ever was,” replied the gossip, “for he came to serv- 
ice, sitting in a dark corner under the gallery, and when all was 
gone he gave me a sixpence not to shut the church immejit. I 
knew him by his standing by her ladyship’s slab, and from seeing 
him at the funeral.” 

“ And where may he be living now ?” 

“I know no more than the dead.” 

“And will he come again, think ye?” 

“How can I tell? He never came before.” 

“And, good wife, if he comes, ask where he lives. I know of 
them who are longing to find him to do him a good turn. I have 
a — a ring — and a book of her ladyship’s were to be given him, 


MRS. PETTIGREW’S MISERIES. 


199 


and if you ’ll find out where he is, by asking or following of him 
up even, I could pay a crown for it.” 

“ I don’t know that I could,” said the woman, looking askance 
at her guest. 

“ But you ’ll keep your eye out, and if he comes let me know 
how he looks, and how he ’s dressed, and whereaway he goes, 
and — there’s a half-crown for your kindness, mother.” 

The well-rubbed round of silver, bearing the head of royal 
George in a peruke, won its way to the heart of the cottager, and 
she looked at the tramp-wife with more favoring eyes. 

“ I ’ll bear ye in mind,” she said, as Mrs. Tony moved away. 

As Mrs. Pettigrew went by the road along which she had 
come, the sound of a horse’s feet on the highway caused her to 
look back, and she saw an ungraceful rider stopping at the church 
gate. She watched, hidden by a hawthorn bush. 

“That’s Sir Wrigley,” she said to herself, “and I’ll be 
blamed if he isn’t here on my very errand ! I know he is ! I ’d 
give all the money I ’ve laid up in my stocking if I knew why 
he was always after that boy !” 

Mrs. Pettigrew tramped along homeward, and the woman at 
the cottage was surprised to have the same questions asked her 
on the same day by a strolling woman and a member of Parlia- 
ment. 

“ My good woman, do you know her ladyship’s adopted son 
when you see him ?” 

“ Well, sir, not exactly to know, but I misgive who he maybe.” 

“ And does he come to visit her ladyship’s tomb?” 

“ The last Sabbath, sir, as ever was.” 

“ Ah ! And do you happen to know where he lives ?” 

“ Sir, I ’ve no notion. He has been here but once.” 

“And if he comes again, could you, quite quietly and without 
mentioning any one, find out his address? I have something 
of value to give him.” 

“Mebbe I could find it out.” 

“ And, at least, as I come by occasionally, you can let me 
know all about him and his visits here. If he comes alone, how 
he is dressed, and so on. And, good mother, as I have taken up 
your time, there ’s a crown.” 

The woman stood blissfully regarding the crown and the half- 


crown. 


200 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ Here ’s better nor the sky failin’ so ’s we can ketch larks,” 
she said gleefully. “That is a civil-spoken gentleman, sure 
enough, and whatever I hears I shall be sure and tell him. And 
the woman’s not so bad. A half-crown is good in its way, 
though it only goes half so far as a crown.” 

Only once during that summer did the woman at the gate have 
any news for Wrigley. On the anniversary of Lady Bidebank’s 
funeral, her adopted son asked for the key of the church and laid 
a wreath of fresh flowers, which he had brought with him, on the 
marble which covered her dust. As he left the church-door the 
old woman stood courtesying before him. 

“ Young sir, I remembers you, but you don’t remember me. 
Ah, I loved her ladyship ! And where, dear sir, are you living 
now ?” 

“Never mind where, good friend. There is a shilling for open- 
ing the gate.” 

And he strode off toward the city. In course of time she im- 
parted this information to both her patrons. 

Mrs. Tony Pettigrew considered that her own plans were 
coming to a crisis. The next summer Rupert would be twenty- 
one and able to make valid bargains for himself. Lord Bidebank 
was unassailable, and she feared Miss Barth beyond all mortals. 
She must find Rupert. Mrs. Tony therefore resolved to go to 
the city for a week, where, by roaming up and down and dili- 
gently searching, she trusted to find her prey. 

The haunts where Mrs. Tony would abide during this search 
were none so honest, and she hesitated long whether or not to 
take her valuable parcel with her. She knew the tricks of her old 
cronies — drugged liquors and anesthetics and robberies. No ! 
Clearly the parcel would be far safer left in her cottage. She had 
there such a nice hiding-place for it. Up near the ceiling she 
had removed a brick from the chimney and slipped in the purple- 
morocco case, several bricks still being between it and the flue. 
No one on earth could find it there, and there it should be 
left. 

Mrs. Pettigrew not being a particularly devoted mother, she 
did not include her son in her projects, nor did she tell him that 
she was going to the city. He was now, she said, old enough to 
shift for himself, and she meant to let him do it. 

Mrs. Tony, therefore, fastened up her house, told the gar- 


MRS. PETTIGREW’S MISERIES. 


201 


dener’s boy at the Towers that she was going for a week’s visit, 
and left her precious pocket-book safely hidden. 

She left home on Wednesday. 

On Saturday afternoon Miss Barth sent young Pettigrew to the 
Towers on an errand, and that concluded, he dutifully turned his 
steps to his mother’s lonely hut, partly to visit her and partly 
because a fierce gust was rising and he concluded to shelter there 
until it was past. 

The house was locked up. 

That was a minor matter to young hopeful. He knew how to 
get in. So he climbed on the shed roof, pulled open the little 
gable- window and descended to the single room below. It was 
cold and dark. The visitor opened the shutter and pushed the 
door-lock back with his jack-knife blade. Next he made a fire, 
wondering when his mother would return. The wind and dark- 
ness increased. A fierce gust of rain and hail came sweeping 
over the roads. There was a clatter of feet, a rush and panting, 
and in burst the gardener’s boy from the storm. 

“You here ?” he cried. “ I see the shutter open, and guessed 
your mother had got home.” 

“ Where is she ?” asked the son. 

“ Why, in the city. She went for a week. She told me.” 

“ She didn’t trouble to tell me” 

“ No ? What a storm ! Whew ! We ’re well indoors.” 

The gardener’s boy drew near the fire and chatted for a half- 
hour, until there was a lull in the autumn tempest. 

“You ’ll not get back to Barth this night,” he said. 

“No,” replied young Pettigrew; “ I ’ll stop here.” 

His visitor seized the lull as a time in which to fly home, and 
Pettigrew, searching the closet, found meal and potatoes whereof 
he made a supper. He then stretched himself back in a chair, 
and with his feet near the replenished blaze, fell asleep, un- 
conscious that the fury of the storm shook the crazy old cottage, 
drove the rain in at door and window and rattled down the bricks 
from the top of the chimney. He was sound asleep when a 
terrific sweep of wind, a crash and a blow, coming simultan- 
eously, brought him to his senses and his feet. The cottage 
was creaking and rocking ; a couple of bricks had fallen from the 
chimney near the ceiling, and one of them had grazed his foot. 
He stood for an instant, expecting the crazy tenement to rattle 


202 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


about his ears. Then he renewed the fire, and as the blaze 
leaped up he moved his chair back from the dangerous chim- 
ney, and regarded it apprehensively. 

The wind calmed a little, his fears subsided, and he began to 
observe the hole whence the bricks had fallen. He thought he 
saw something white in this aperture, and, unable to sleep, he 
climbed up to make sure. He found a little flat parcel wrapped 
in a white rag. Kneeling on the hearth, he began to unwrap 
this, and taking off fold after fold of wrapping-paper, he came 
at last to the most beautiful bauble which he had ever had in his 
hands. A flat, purple-leather case, the lining of quilted satin ; 
on one side some beautiful enwreathed device stamped in gold 
— the clasp of gold, and a fine little chain of gold passing about 
the case. 

“Oh, my eye!” said young Pettigrew. “Ain’t that a reg’lar 
picter now ?” 

His mother had trained him to the dishonest theory, “findings, 
keepings.” Never in his life had he been taught to restore what 
he had found, even if he saw the former owner drop it. The 
instant he had this case in his hands he assumed that it was his . 
And first, he considered what a good find it was; and next, 
what to do with it. 

True, life at Barth and being summoned in to daily prayers and 
sent Sunday to church, had done something for this young 
heathen ; the monitions of his adored Miss Mi had done more 
also to correct his vices : but he was no A No. i in honesty yet — 
and far be it from him to seek for other owner than himself for 
this treasure. 

It never entered his mind that this belonged to his mother. 
He thought he had seen all her belongings, and relied on her 
gossiping tongue to keep nothing a secret. Some former occu- 
pant of the cottage must have hidden it, and he, lucky lad, had 
found it. At this stage of the proceedings of his mind he climbed 
up and replaced the bricks firmly in the chimney. 

He had opened the case and found an empty pocket. Mrs. 
Pettigrew had taken the precaution of basting together the edges 
of the pocket wherein was the envelope, and her son, unversed 
in these nicknacks, did not observe it. 

He turned it over and over again. He wondered how much 
it would bring at a second-hand store or a pawn-broker’s. Then 


MRS. PETTIGREW’S MISERIES. 


203 


he studied that profound enigma, the monogram of “ L. B.,” and 
could make nothing of it, but feared it might be some owner’s 
name, and capable of mysteriously “getting him into quod.” 
Would it be safe to sell it ? He was getting on so finely at Barth ; 
but if a beak ever called there for him he would be disgraced 
irretrievably, and what would Miss Mi say to that? 

The thought of Miss Mi put him on a new track. He had 
learned from the servants’ talk that next spring she would be 
nineteen — in May — and she was to come out, and have a ball or 
a party or something fine, and some of the servants meant to 
make her a present. 

Light broke on young Pettigrew’s mind. He meant to hide 
this gorgeous treasure very safely, and present it himself to the 
young lady, as a gift worthy of her and of his deep gratitude. 
Yes, this lovely trinket would just suit Miss Mi, and whenever 
he could get courage to lay it at her feet he meant to do so. 

Accordingly, next morning, Pettigrew, junior, tidied up his 
mother’s house, putting everything exactly as he found it, and 
returning to Barth, he quite unconsciously took a leaf out of his 
mother’s book of example, for he lifted a board in the floor of 
the attic over the laundry, which was his sleeping-place, and 
under that board he stowed away the gift destined for Miss Mi. 

On Wednesday, a cold October day, Mrs. Pettigrew tramped 
up from London, with a gloom on her face like the gloom of the 
late season. 

She had entirely failed to get any trace of Sir Rupert. She 
had been robbed of some money. She had altogether had a 
discouraging trip. As she went along the Warwick Road, a 
funeral crossed it, going to a rural burial-ground. The hearse 
was plain. The coffin, seen through the glass, was of black- 
painted pine. The housings of the horses were patched, and the 
plumes on*their heads were faded and dingy. 

“Wonder if that’s how I’ll be buried some day?” said the 
despondent Mrs. Tony, and looked on the undertaker riding by 
in his gig as her enemy. 

He had gotten five pounds for this funeral. The note was now 
in his pocket — an old woman’s savings; and along one edge of it 
were faint, fine red lines — Jasper Fitzroy’s cry of agony from 
Asian captivity. 

Mrs. Pettigrew got home at nightfall. She climbed on a chair, 


204 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


holding in her hand a lighted candle, and she took a loose brick 
from her chimney. Then she put her hand into the aperture. It 
was empty! Yes, surely empty! The object of her life was 
gone ! She flung herself on the floor with a wild cry. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

11 IN A GOLDEN-NETTED SIMILE.” 

With the gloom and decay of this early November, Rupert’s 
hopes of finding Natolie seemed also perishing. He was becom- 
ing discouraged ; his strange, new life of loneliness and toil, the 
unvaried treadmill from day to day, oppressed his spirits. If he 
had the high courage and dogged resolution of the late Sir Giles, 
his father, and of Myra Barth, he had also the morbid sensitive- 
ness of his mother, the Lady Elizabeth. 

He was getting very gloomy indeed, when one afternoon he 
left the office earlier than usual to do an errand with the captain of 
an Italian ship. That concluded, he was going home by Bishop- 
gate Street, when his attention was attracted to a young person 
walking briskly before him. Something in the elegance of her 
carriage and the incongruities of her appearance riveted his re- 
gards. She walked like a queen, but she carried a bundle. Her 
black-silk dress was evidently old and worn, while her shawl was 
costly ; her gloves were cotton, and as the wind tossed her dress 
the observing Rupert detected a patch on her Number i shoe — 
but the vail that fell over her face showed in the ends that waved 
behind an expensive texture. She stopped wistfully by a flower- 
seller and looked at her wares. 

“These tuberoses only tuppence, ma’am, and all these cut 
flowers threepence. It ’s late — please buy.” 

She hesitated a little, then purchased the tuberoses. 

Rupert sighed, remembering how fond Natolie had been of 
those flowers. 

On went the unknown, and slowly Rupert followed, idly anxious 
to see her face. 

She entered a store devoted to worsted goods and embroidery, 
and Rupert, looking in at the window, as her back was still to 
him, saw her open her parcel and hand its contents to a clerk. 


IN A GOLDEN-NETTED SIMILE.” 


205 


u 


The forewoman of the establishment came up, paid the stranger 
some money, and then produced a large piece of canvas em- 
broidery over which there arose a consultation. The girl whom 
Rupert had followed, finally carried this work close to the window 
and threw back her vail. Rupert saw the face of Natolie ! Dizzy 
with joy, he turned aside and waited with trembling impatience 
until she came from the store. Again he followed her, and as 
the street near Primrose Lane was more empty, he stepped 
forward. 

“ Natolie ! Oh, Natolie ! Stop ! I have looked for you so 
long !” 

“ Oh, Rupert !” cried Natolie, joyfully holding out her hand. 

“ How could you hide so ?” cried Rupert. “ I have looked for 
you for years, Natolie !” 

He tried to take the parcel which she had brought from the 
store. 

“No, no,” said Natolie, “I am used to carrying bundles— 
now.” 

“So am I,” said Rupert, taking it. “And how is your 
mother?” he demanded. 

“ She is well,” replied Natolie, speaking with constraint. 

“ And will she not be glad to see me ?” 

Natolie did not answer. They had hidden themselves and 
their poverty so long, these two proud women. To be found by 
any former friend had its element of pain. Rupert began to be 
alarmed. Natolie’s first look and cry had been joyous — but now 
she was silent and constrained — anxious, rather than glad. 

In these years had she forgotten him, formed other ties, loved 
— wedded some one else ? Oh, horror ! 

“ Natolie,” he cried, desperately, “ are you married?” 

The girl half stopped. She stretched her magnificent eyes to 
their widest extent ; she laughed merrily. 

“ Whatever put such nonsense into your head ?” 

“Jealousy,” replied Rupert, promptly; “you did not seem 
quite glad to see me, Natolie.” 

The girl moved on without answering. 

“Do you live this way?” asked Rupert. “Iam going home 
with you — shall I ?” 

Still no reply but that contracting of the brows, and the rising 
flush on the cheek. 


20 6 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


They passed up Shoreditch Street, and Natolie hesitated. 

“ Do you live in Bethual district, Natolie ?” cried Rupert. 

“ Yes,” said Natolie, desperately. 

“Why, so do I,” cried Rupert, “for more than a year, and to 
think we never met.” 

“You !” exclaimed Natolie, turning. Then as she walked on 
she covertly scrutinized Rupert. His appearance was scrupulously 
neat and gentlemanly — but, was not that a mend on his boot ? 
And he wore no gloves ; and his suit, very fine and well-fitting, 
looked as if it might have been bought two years ago. 

“I thought you were at Bidebank,” said Natolie. 

“ Lady Bidebank is dead,” replied Rupert, softly. 

“Yes, I saw that in the paper. But you were her heir ?” 

“ So she said. But no will could be found. It was lost, no 
one could guess how. And I departed with fifty pounds and a 
couple of boxes of clothes. I am a clerk in a wholesale house — 
foreign correspondent, if you please. Not so bad a position, but 
pretty much of a grind, after all. I lodge over here in Hare 
Street. Now are you ashamed to walk with me?” 

“ We lodge in Bird-Cage Walk,” cried Natolie, cordially, “ and 
mamma will be ever so glad to see you. You must come in and 
have tea with us, if you are not ashamed. For, if you please, 
we make our living by all manner of little arts, but mostly by 
knitting and embroidering; and that ’s my work you are carrying 
under your arm, sir,” added Natolie, with a sort of proud humil- 
ity and an indignant defiance of her fate. 

Mi would have gone into floods of tears at the look and the 
words. Rupert, too, was cut to the heart. 

“ It ’s nothing for me, Natolie !” he cried hotly. “ A man can 
hew his way through difficulties. But for you and for your mother, 
the contessa , it ’s terrible.” 

“ We call ourselves Montgomery now, not Idria,” said Natolie, 
as they turned into Bird-Cage Walk. 

“You shall always be Natolie tome,” retorted Rupert. “I 
can’t stand anything else.” 

Natolie opened the door beside the baker’s shop. 

“ Up here,” she said, her lip half curling between a smile and 
a tear, embarrassed by the meanness of her surroundings. 

“ Well, / lodge over a green-grocer’s !” cried Rupert. 

“ Of course,” said Natolie, stopping on the stairs and facing 


IN A GOLDEN-NETTED SIMILE. 


207 


u 


Rupert, “I ought not to be glad that you have lost your money 
and work for your living and live over a green-grocer’s shop. I 
hope the smell of potatoes and turnips is not too unendurable, 
sir, for really the warm-bread smell here is quite overpowering 
sometimes. But what I stopped to observe was that, if you had 
not been in these undesirable circumstances, I should not have let 
you come home with me.” 

“ I understand,” said Rupert, looking at her with laughing 
eyes. “This puts us socially on a level, and is a bond of sym- 
pathy between us. The daily wages, now lying in our two 
pockets, will prevent any mutual misunderstandings. Oh, 
Natolie !” 

She looked so enchanting, standing on the step above him, 
smiling at him, with her eyes half smiles, half tears, that Rupert 
tried to express his ecstatic delight by seizing her hand. 

Natolie snatched it away, and, running up the stairs, threw 
open the door of a neat little sitting-room, where the stately con- 
tessa , a deal grayer than of yore, was knitting an infant’s sacque, 
half a dozen similar sacques lying on a table before her. 

The contessa rose in surprise, as she saw a tall and mustached 
young man carrying her daughter’s parcel. 

“Natolie!” she exclaimed, astonished. 

“ Yes, mamma — it is Rupert — Rupert Bidebank. There was 
no will, mamma, and he got no fortune, and he is writing for- 
eign letters for somebody. Quite as dismally off as we are — and 
I ’ve asked him to tea l” 

The contessa put aside her daughter, and gave her hand to 
Rupert, with as much dignity as if she were yet ruling in the 
salons of all the Idrias. 

“I am sorry,” she said, “that you too have had losses, and 
have fallen from happier days.” 

“Thank you,” said Rupert, kissing the contessa 1 s hand, and 
laying down Natolie’s parcel. “ I am not sorry if it has helped 
me to find you and Natolie. She tells me that it was only my 
misfortunes that made me eligible to an invitation to tea.” 

“ We thought it best,” said the contessa , “to withdraw from 
former friends, since we must live in such, a very different 
way.” 

Natolie put her tuberoses in a little vase - — a vase that Rupert 
remembered to have given her long ago. Then she ran down- 


208 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


stairs with a little basket, and soon returned with materials for 
salad and with a plate of muffins from the baker’s shop. 

The contessa , knitting steadily, endeavored to keep up a con- 
nected conversation with Rupert on past events, but her tongue 
often faltered, and her eye wandered to her beautiful daughter, 
the last of the Idrias, preparing the tea. 

Rupert’s eyes wandered also to Natolie, and he did not care 
whether the conversation was connected or not, he was so en- 
tranced with Miss Idria’s proceedings. She put on a little white 
apron, fine and also finely darned; for Natolie’s clothes were 
mostly remnants of better days and were well worn. Then she 
set the table, putting the vase of flowers in the midst. She 
steeped the tea, toasted and buttered the muffins at the little 
grate, made the salad, cut the bread, and put on the jar of mar- 
malade. And there was the same incongruity between the fine 
damask table-linen and the silver with the Idria crest and the 
cheap wall-paper, the threadbare Brussels carpet, and the plain 
fare that there was between these two women and their surround- 
ings, between Natolie and her dress. 

After tea — a very happy tea, too, it was — Natolie rang for the 
small servant of the establishment to come and carry down the 
dishes. Herself, armed with a towel, did up the silver, and then 
she sat down to crochet a miter, and engage Rupert in conversa- 
tion. Then truly the tongues of the young people flew fast. Ru- 
pert detailed his foreign life, Lady Bidebank’s death, the loss of 
the will, Lord Bidebank’s conduct and his own present occupation. 

Natolie was less free in her communications, but explained that 
they had had but this one lodging-place, and found, on the whole, 
that fancy-work was a pleasanter method of bread-winning than 
day-governessing. 

“ I ’ve looked for you every hour I had. I ’ve spent evenings 
roaming everywhere, hoping to see you.” 

“We never got out evenings,” said Natolie. 

“ And every Sunday I ’ve looked for you from church to 
church.” 

“We go to the French Protestant Church in Bloomsbury,” 
said the contessa , “because there they are nearly all poor, and 
we are not likely to meet any one that we know.” 

It was late before Rupert thought of leaving. He wanted to 
make arrangements for taking Natolie on some walks or to some 









“IN A GOLDEN-NETTED SIMILE.” 209 

entertainments ; but that proposal the contessa negatived. In 
their position, it would not do, she said. 

At least Rupert wanted to go to church with them on Sunday 
mornings, and to spend Saturday evening with them. To this 
the contessa agreed. 

Rupert’s frank, cheery ways, his honest statements of his 
affairs and his close connection with their happy past commended 
him to the contessa. She saw Natolie, long deprived of youthful 
company, brightening in this merry companionship, and she could 
not refuse to continue it, although she had grave doubts as to the 
prudence of the affair. 

Rupert was gone, and Natolie, putting away the work mate- 
rials, began to prepare for the night. She let down her long hair, 
and the contessa set herself to brush it. Since they had had no 
maid, the contessa had always performed this office. The beauty 
of her child seemed the last relic of the old-time splendor of the 
Idrias, and she cherished it with a true Italian adoration of beauty 
and grace. 

Natolie sat as her mother brushed her hair, her shining eyes 
vailed with their long lashes and a smile on her lips. She was 
reviewing all her acquaintance with Rupert : The first child- 
meeting in the primrose dell; their childish escapades striking 
terror into the families of Barth, Bidebank and Idria; of their 
parting when Rupert had gone abroad. 

“ Natolie,” said her mother, “ what are you thinking about?” 

“ Nothing,” said Natolie, without her usual frankness, and 
then her heart smote her. 

She and her mother had been sole friends and companions all 
these years, making, side by side, their fight with disaster. And 
now should Natolie have any reservations from her mother? 

“ I ’m thinking of Rupert,” spoke up Natolie the bold. “ He 's 
a deal nicer than he used to be — but he was always very nice — 
although he plagued you dreadfully when he was a little boy.” 

“ I ’m afraid,” said the poor contessa , “ that he’ll plague me 
much more dreadfully now that he is a big boy, especially as 
neither you nor he has a sixpence.” And suddenly realizing 
what a poor and unprotected position was that of her beautiful 
daughter, and how different from her birthright and from that 
of a long line of lovely Idrias, she dropped into a chair and burst 
into tears. 


210 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ Mamma, my darling, dearest mamma !” cried Natolie, spring- 
ing up and flying to her mother. “ Don’t ! Don’t ! Whatever 
is the matter ? I want nothing that troubles you ! If it hurts 
you for him to come here, let him stay away. I won’t have any- 
thing that you do not want.” 

“ Never mind, my darling,” said the contessa . “ I will think 

this over, and things may look brighter to me in the morning.” 

As for Rupert, he kept up such a busy thinking that he did 
not go to sleep that night, and he rose in the morning, full of 
valorous purposes. 

Therefore, when the august heads of the wholesale house were 
seated, about eleven o’clock, in their private office, enters to them 
the foreign correspondent. 

Now this correspondent’s manners and conversation savored of 
the rank wherein he had been brought up, and it was hardly in 
the style of the other occupants of the office stools that he re- 
marked to the junior partner, who had engaged him : 

“Sir, I come to ask if you could promise me an increase of 
salary by next spring. I am worth more than when I came, as I 
understand the business better, and I can make myself worth 
more still.” 

“We are paying a high salary, and are not accustomed to 
being asked for increase,” said the junior. 

“ But, sir, the increase will be needful to me, as I expect to be 
married next spring,” replied Rupert, “ and I hope you will favor- 
ably consider my petition.” 

“ Who is this young man ?” demanded the senior partner, who 
was so lofty that he could seldom see other than columns of pounds. 

“ He is our foreign correspondent, recommended by Mr. Mel- 
lodew, formerly adopted son of Lady Bidebank,” replied the 
junior partner, reading off Rupert as he was ticketed in his mind. 

“ ‘ Bidebank !’ ” ejaculated the other. 

“No will, you know,” said the junior, continuing with his 
mental label — “expected to inherit and did not — Mellodew.” 
Thus information and reference. 

The senior looked at Rupert, who stood flushing. 

“ And if the will were found, you would have ?” 

“ About thirty thousand,” returned Rupert, impatiently. “ But 
it will never be found. I expect to work hard for my bread.” 

“ Very right spirit,” said the junior. 


“IN A GOLDEN-NETTED simile. ” 


211 


“ And you expect to be married? You are too young.” This 
from the senior partner. 

“ Circumstances alter cases,” said Rupert, laughing. 

“ Sixty pounds’ advance, then ; but it is not to be mentioned 
in the office. This whole proceeding is entirely unprecedented, 
your present salary being two hundred pounds.” 

Rupert returned to his high stool and his desk in a blissful 
state of expectation. It was hard work to read and answer. let- 
ters. Such a snug little house out by Hackney kept appearing 
to him, with the contessa calmly sewing in the parlor and Natolie 
looking out of the windows ! 

But not a word of such visions dare he whisper in Bird-Cage 
Walk. It was proper that his hopes should far outrun his pro- 
ceedings. 

And now Rupert no longer found his office toil so burden- 
some. It was lit with brilliant prospects. He worked harder than 
ever, he economized more than ever, . for five days in the week. 

Then, on Saturday afternoon, a mysterious little boy began to 
hand to the small servant at the baker’s a mysterious basket — 
the contents whereof were wont to grace the contessa' s tea-table — 
and at six o’clock Rupert knocked at the contessa' s door and pre- 
sented a bouquet to Natolie and generally a book to the contessa , 
and then they all had a very merry evening. 

On Sunday morning, Rupert joined the contessa and her 
daughter at the corner of Anchor Street and Shoreditch, and they 
all went to church together, and Rupert returned to lunch. 

With so much friendly intercourse, no one will be surprised to 
learn that by New Year’s Day Rupert felt sufficiently assured of 
his standing to ask the contessa to allow Natolie to drive with him 
in a cab to the church of St. Cleopas, to see where Lady Bide- 
bank was buried. 

The two young people spent about fifteen minutes in the church, 
and their visit was carefully reported by the woman at the gate to 
Wrigley. 

“ He have come again, sir.” 

“And did you find out where he lived ?” 

“No more I did, sir. But he had with him the most beautiful 
young lady ever I set eyes on 1” 

“A young lady !” gasped Wrigley. 

“Aye, sir, and they seemed mortal fond of each other.” 


212 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“And you never took the trouble to find out who she was nor 
where they came from ?” 

“ Trouble, is it, sir? I just wearied myself trying to find out. 
I asked them in to rest. I offered a glass of milk. I said had 
they come far ? Did they like living in London ? Which part 
of the city did they come from? Were they walking? And, as 
I did love to know young people’s names, what were theirs ? 
Why, sir, never a answer I got, but that never mind their names, 
and that they had a cab a quarter of a mile down the road, wait- 
ing for them.” 

“ There ’s a crown,” said Wrigley, “and there’s my address, 
and keep it to yourself ; and if anything happens, let me know at 
once, or if they come again.” 

He gave her a fictitious address, which he was in the habit of 
using, and rode off, very unhappy in his mind. 

The boy Rupert seemed to have surmounted all the disasters 
gathered by Wrigley about his babyhood, his childhood and his 
youth. Spirits celestial must be striving in his behalf. And now 
had he reached manhood. Was he making love, and should a 
troop of rosy children be direct heir of Barth? 

Wrigley felt as if fate was moving with prodigious strides to 
bring Rupert forward as the long-lost heir of Barth. What avail 
to have so hedged in Myra all these years, and rejoiced in her 
single estate, if Rupert’s marriage bells were to ring and Sir Giles 
Barth’s grandchildren to appear ! 

“ Curse me !” bellowed Wrigley. “ He shall not marry ?” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE FATAL HOUR OF NOON. 

From the hour when he planned that kidnaping of Lady 
Barth’s babe, which the sleepwalker had forestalled, Wrigley 
had gone on and on in his wicked strife to secure the Barth 
inheritance. The lying letter to Jasper Fitzroy ; the concealment 
of the lost heir ; the transaction with the baby-farmer ; the be- 
trayal of Sir Rupert into the hands of tramps, were all steps in 
the downward way, which now he was prepared to tread with an 
accelerated pace. 


THE FATAL HOUR OF NOON. 


213 


Thus evil grows upon us. It was not excess of parental love 
that impelled Wrigley in his pursuit of property. It was that low 
passion, greed. 

As he rode home after his interview with the gate-woman at St. 
Cleopas, he felt ready to pursue Rupert with relentless hate. The 
boy seemed to possess a charmed life. 

He had fled from the Hall, so far as Wrigley knew, friendless 
and penniless; and he had not betaken himself to the colonies; 
nor had he died of poverty nor fallen hopelessly in haunts of 
vice, but here he was, making a respectable living, thinking of 
marrying, and likely at any day to report himself to former friends ; 
when almost any trifling incident might make known his real 
name and position. 

Wrigley set himself to prepare for the worst; he must have 
his means and instruments ready. He opened communication 
with Tony Pettigrew, whom he brought back near London, and 
he borrowed five hundred pounds of Miss Barth, so that he might 
cover any expenses which his attack on Rupert would entail. 

But no one was so unsuspicious of enemies as Sir Rupert. 
Happy in his love, his life now appeared to him like a long gala 
day. His very foreign business letters were as delightful as if they 
flowed in harmonious numbers ; for were they not earning him 
money for a home with Natolie ? 

He had had some shamefacedness — result of his early training 
. — about earning his bread by clerking. But when he looked at 
the high-born contessa and her daughter courageously toiling for 
a pittance, labor became more honorable in his eyes. 

Youth, like charity, hopeth all things. 

Rupert built many a splendid air-castle. He and Natolie now 
went out for evening walks, as the spring days were long, and 
when they passed the house of some merchant prince Rupert 
would say : 

“ There ! I shall roll up a fortune and get a home just like 
that — some day. I mean to make my way to being partner in 
our house.” 

Or did some splendid chariot, lined with satin, drawn by pran- 
cing bays and glorious in wigged footmen and coachmen, whirl 
by, Rupert would point it out, remarking magnificently : 

“ There, Natolie ! I shall get an establishment just like that 
for you some day,” 


214 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


And Saturdays, when business closed early, they rode in a ’bus 
to the West End or the Northwest, and rambled in Hyde Park, 
along the Serpentine or in Regent’s Park, and to their happy 
young hearts it was quite as good as having splendid grounds of 
their own — quite as good as the fair acres of Barth, Bidebank and 
F itzroy. 

The poor contessa was the least happy of the three. The boy 
and the girl, youthlike, lived in the present. The anxious mother 
regarded the future. Natolie and Rupert were devoted to each 
other, and the contessa knew that the next thing would be a peti- 
tion for marriage. 

And why not? The contessa said to herself that if she were to 
die her beautiful daughter would be left, in her unprotected 
youth, alone in the seething maelstrom of London workers. 

Considering this, her heart said, as Naomi to Ruth : 

“ My daughter, shall I not seek rest for thee — that it may be 
well with thee ?” 

But the contessa was proud, and she saw and felt keenly the 
other side of this question. 

Rupert was a foundling. His name and birth were unknown, 
and Natolie represented the long honors of the line of Idria. 

And Rupert was poor. To meet all the complicated cares and 
expenses of married life he had but a clerk’s pay ; and he was 
exposed to all the fluctuations and reverses of mercantile business. 

This, indeed, was a very different match for her daughter than 
the contessa had pictured to herself when Miss Idria had first 
arrived in this world of changes. 

Times had changed, and the poor contessa was obliged to 
change with them. To refuse Rupert when he asked for Natolie’s 
hand might be far worse than to accept him. The contessa loved 
and respected him; she only wished his fortunes were fairer. 

And Rupert made her a very honest statement. He told her 
that he did not know his parentage and had even been told that 
his birth was low. As for money, he had saved two hundred 
pounds. He could take a little house in Hackney and furnish it 
for the three, and after that he would have his salary of two hun- 
dred and sixty pounds a year. Enough, said Rupert, for himself, 
Natolie and the contessa , and these two dear women should toil 
no more for daily bread. 

The cont?s$a shed a few teats and said: “Yes!” And her 


THE FATAL HOUR OF NOON. 


215 


daughter should be married in May, the Italian month for 
bridals. 

This was to be the simplest of weddings. No wedding break- 
fast, no cards, no cake, no coaches, no settlements, no bevy of 
bridemaids, no gifts, no favors— merely : Rupert, wilt thou 
take,” etc. “ Yes, I will” (with all his heart). “Natolie, wilt 
thou take — ” And a “ yes ” from Natolie, not quite so loud, but 
quite as well intended. 

Surely, about such a simple proceeding there could be but little 
difference of opinion. And yet there was this difference : 

Natolie’s idea was to be married by license in the little French 
chapel at Bloomsbury. The contessa could not abide the idea of 
a license, and preferred the statelier old fashion of bans. 

Rupert strongly desired to be married at St. Cleopas. This 
would bring him, he felt, nearer to his beloved adoptive mother. 
He almost believed that her reposing dust would sympathize with 
his joy. She had loved Natolie; she had known his love for this 
girl and expected him to marry her. It is not true that in bridals 
all things are set to please the bride and according to her pref- 
erence. 

The unlucky Natolie yielded both to mother and lover — she 
agreed to be married by bans in St. Cleopas. And the bans were 
to be proclaimed on three Sabbaths, and then on the day after 
the last proclamation they were to go with the contessa to St. 
Cleopas and be married. 

But before this there were so many delightful things to do. 

There was the house to be leased. 

This necessitated searching the daily papers and the agents’ 
lists; and Rupert must make evening pilgrimages to see if the 
premises were at all eligible. Then he must escort the contessa 
and Natolie to pass their judgment, and they, especially the 
contessa , who was so much wiser in household ways, discovered 
a dozen objectionable points of which Rupert had not dreamed. 

Then it was all to be done over again ! 

Finally a house was secured, which Natolie and Rupert was 
sure looked like at least the gate of paradise. It had six rooms ; 
the drawing-room had gilt leaves on the paper and a gilt mold- 
ing, and a bay-window for flowers and a bird-cage ! 

Even the contessa admitted that it did very well. 

After that there wa§ the furniture to buy. 


2l6 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


And what evenings and Saturday afternoons were spent in 
that delicious occupation, where the exquisite taste of the two 
ladies and the economies they had learned by long poverty came 
into full play ! What marvels they wrought out of a little by their 
needles and their ingenuity ! 

As Rupert could not leave his daily toil to superintend the fit- 
ting-up of the house, that part fell to the contessa and her daugh- 
ter. They would spend the whole day at Hackney, making and 
putting up curtains and toilet tables and advantageously distrib- 
uting the few choice ornaments which they owned. Then, as 
soon as released from business, over Rupert would rush to Hack- 
ney and pull the bell — oh, joy ! — of his own house. And Natolie, 
with hair rumpled and cheeks flushed and sleeves rolled above her 
pearly, dimpled elbows, would come to the door — and be aston- 
ished to see Rupert. 

Then, admitted to the hall, he must shut his eyes, or allow them 
to be tied up, and be led to the last room decorated, and look on 
all the splendor at once, as at some grand sun-burst, and be 
properly dazzled thereby. 

As it was growing dark, the boy from the nearest baker must 
bring them a pitcher of milk and a plate of rolls, which the three 
ate, as they sat perched on packing-boxes or upturned chairs or 
tables; and then they went home together, by moonlight or 
starlight or lamplight — any light was perfectly beautiful to them 
then — and the contessa looked ten years younger as she smiled 
at the phantasies of her children. 

After all, the amusements of this bright time were not so very 
different from the times when they had played “keep house” in 
the Bidebank woods. 

Besides all this, there was Natolie’s wardrobe to prepare; and 
the contessa searched to their very depths the chests and boxes 
which contained the last relics of her former splendor, and she 
wrought on these, with mother-love and womanly skill, until her 
child’s trousseau was not one at which to blush. There was no 
more work done now for the knit-goods house ; Natolie and her 
mother were busy at pleasanter tasks. 

And, finally, there was the servant to be hired. What a world 
of work it was to find a girl, a young, pleasant, tidy, skillful, 
honest, strong — in fact, a very concatenation of domestic virtues, 
ready to accept pleasant words and a very modest pittance. 


THE FATAL HOUR OF NOON. 


21 7 


Even such a maid was found at last, for thus far fortune smiled 
on our young couple, and lured them on to disaster by pleasant 
wiles. 

Two Sabbaths in April the bans were to be proclaimed ; the 
first day of May, which would be Sabbath, the magic formula would 
be said, and the second day of May the rector of St. Cleopas 
should make them man and wife. 

Rupert thought that after he and Natolie had been some while 
married he would announce his change of state to Mr. Mellodew, 
and perhaps even go to visit Miss Barth. The fact was, the 
joyful young fellow wanted every one to know that his life had 
been crowned with the love of Natolie. 

During all this while he had not once gone near the estates 
of Bidebank nor Barth, nor had he visited that scene of his early 
adventures, the Willesden Reservoir. Timmy Titlow he had not 
seen since his departure for the Continent. He had not only 
grown out of Timmy’s remembrance, but he had forgotten Timmy. 

He himself was recalled to Mr. Titlow’s recollection about this 
time by Dame Chitton. The dame was one of those women who 
early in life seem to grow as old as they can, and after that 
live years and years, gnarled and hardy as an old apple-tree. 
The good dame was still nurse at the Paddington Almshouse, 
and still as bright and as vigorous as when Sir Rupert was first 
laid, a dripping babe, on her knee. 

She had heard through Timmy of Rupert’s boyish flight from 
Bidebank; during his Continental trip she had called at the Hall, 
and found that he was abroad with her ladyship, and now she 
was moved to repair to the reservoir and talk him over with 
Timmy Titlow. 

Mr. Titlow, as he approached the basin one afternoon, beheld 
a wiry, red-cloaked figure, bent but hardy, trudging up the side 
of the embankment. 

“Save us all ! If this isn’t you, Dame Chitton ! Looking as 
young as ever !” cried the gallant Timmy, turning over the res- 
ervoir boat, to give the old woman a comfortable seat. “ Still 
working away !” 

“ I ’ve outlived all my family, Timmy,” said the dame; “they 
’re all gone long ago. And Lady Bidebank, as lived in luxury, 
she’s gone, and the poor old a’msh’us’ nurse lives on. A very 
nice leddy was her leddyship, Timmy. And do you know what ’s 


2l8 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


become of the young gentleman ? You ain’t quite so free visiting 
me, Timmy, since you became a man o’ property.” 

“ ’T ain’t that, dame, not a hundred p’un’ ain’t so great of a 
prapperty,” said Timmy, with a little pride in his wealth 
“ Though as for that, I ’ve laid up another hundred out o’ my 
wage. But I ’m well on toward fifty, dame, and I ain’t so young 
as I was, and I don’t hold my own as you does. Trotting round 
this here basin every night in the damp makes me stiffish in my 
legs, and when I ain’t at my rounds I don’t walk much.” 

Having thus disposed of that most important subject him- 
self, Mr. Titlow thought of the dame’s inquiry, and responded 
to it : 

‘‘That young gentleman, dame, he ’s gone and lost hisself 
again. He ’s a rare hand for losing of hisself.” 

“ And how lost, and why lost ?” queried the dame. “Didn’t 
he come in for money from her ladyship ?” 

“No more he did. Everything connected with that there 
young man seemed to have a faculty o’ losing. Why, dame, 
her leddyship’s will, making him heir, got lost, too, and he felt so 
cut up that off he ran, and he ’s never been heard o’ since.” 

The dame sighed. 

“There seems something wrong with him from the very begin- 
ning,” she said. 

“And nat’rally, dame, it’s hard on you, this, for if he had got 
the money, he ’s not the young man / took him for if he left his 
own grandmother a-nussin’ in Paddington Almshouse.” 

“Don’t ‘grandmother’ me,” said Dame Chitton, solemnly. 
“I’ve repented of all my sins.” 

“ Well, what ’s that to do with it ?” said honest Timmy. “You 
don’t reckon having a likely grandchild one of your sins, does 
you ? Ain’t he yer darter Jane’s boy ?” 

“ No more he ain’t !” groaned the dame. 

“ Save us all !” cried Timmy, using his favorite adjuration. 
“ Well, who the creation is he, dame ?” 

“ I don’t know no more nor the dead,” said the dame. 

“ That’s beyond all I ever heard of,” said Timmy. “ Where 
did you get him, then? You said he was Jane’s boy.” 

“ Mebby I lied,” said the dame ; “and if I had my life to live 
over again, Timmy, I ’d never lie, even in a good cause. You 
take warnin’ by me. You’re young.” 


THE FATAL HOUR OF NOON. 


219 


“ But about the boy ?” urged Timmy, whose curiosity ill brooked 
the hindrance of a moral lecture. 

“ Like Moses in the good book,” said the dame, “ he was one 
drawn out o’ the water. Neither was he drug out by Pharyo’s 
darter, but by a big black dog.” 

“ Save us all !” ejaculated Timmy. 

“ It ’s all been heavy on my mind, and I wanted to tell Lady 
Bidebank,” said the dame, “ and now she ’s dead. I ’ve writ it 
out fair and left it to be read by you when I am dead, Timmy. 
Only I cannot have it talked of, lest blame fall upon poor Sam 
Porter, as is dead and can’t speak for hisself.” 

“You tell me all about it,” said Timmy. “ I ’ll not tell.” 

“ I ’d like to free my mind,” said the dame ; “ only you must 
promise never to breathe it to a livin’ soul, all along of Sam, who 
was as honest a man as lived and meant no harm.” 

“ I ’ll never breathe a word,” said Timmy, “unless — unless Sam 
comes back to answer for hisself.” 

“ He ’ll not come,” said the dame. “ I ’ve had dreams about he. 
He ’s dead, under deep water. His bones is all white, and sea- 
weeds growing in the j’ints. In his eyes shells are fixed, and shells 
and coral is all around him, and fishes swim above him.” 

“ Then he ’s all right and past feelin’ hurt by it,” said Timmy, 
consolingly. “So, dame, you tell me that story, and I ’ll never 
speak a word of it, not ’less Sam Porter comes out of the sea 
and stands afore me.” 

Thus persuaded, the dame gave Timmy a careful account of 
the night when Jane’s baby had died and a big, wet dog had laid 
a wet baby at Sam’s feet. 

“ We made sure it came out o’ the reservoir,” she said. 

“ Save us all !” shouted Timmy. “ It did ! It did ! Why, 
dame, that must ’a’ been the very night I see the basin ghost — 
or thought I see her — and everybody here went and said I ’d for- 
got my duty and had dreamed I saw a woman fling a baby in this 
very blessed basin o’ London drinking-water !” 

“ I guess it wasn’t no ghost, Timmy, but living flesh and blood 
o’ some poor, forlorn creature as couldn’t abide keeping that 
baby. To me, that night, it did look just as if the good Lord had 
sent it to save my Jane’s life, as Joseph said when he got sent to 
Egypt. I don’t think one could blame us for what we did, 
Timmy. Doctor Wrigley didn’t, and he's a good man.” 




220 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ Doctor Wrigley !” cried Timmy. 

“Yes. Doctor was the only one as know’d it. He found it 
out the very next day evening — ’long o’ the poor little dear being 
took with lung fever. He gave Sam the money to bury our own 
poor wean over at Tower Hamlets Cemetery, where there was a 
very ’commodating sextant. And doctor told us just to keep 
quiet and 'let well alone with Jane and the new baby.” 

“Well, blame me!” said Tim, emphatically. “There’s a 
trick somewhere, for Doctor Wrigley was searchin’ the basin that 
very day for a baby, and sent a drive down for five pound to 
hunt it up, and he let on he was wild to find it. Some of his rela- 
tion’s babies or something. And at that very time, my cousin, 
Tony Pettigrew, a disreputable dog, if I am a decent fellow as 
ever wore a skin, was sexton at Tower Hamlets; and Tony and 
the doctor always had some queer goings-on together, and he 
keeps Tony round here now sort of shady. I tell you, dame, 
there is a trick somewhere, and a bad one.” 

“Eh !” cried the dame, alarmed. “Well, Timmy, I’m old, and 
I always meant well, and you ’re to keep your promise and not 
speak. I can’t get blamed and end my old days in prison for some 
one’s tricks.” 

“ Never fear, dame, I ’ll not speak — but I ’ll think r, and I ’ll 
watch,” said Timmy Titlow. 

The first bans had been said at old St. Cleopas, and the second 
bans had been said, when all the primroses were blowing, and 
then the old woman at the gate sent her news to Wrigley. 

“The young gentleman’s bans are to be said next Sabbath for 
the last time.” 

Over came Wrigley to hear. 

There, too, came Rupert to hear. 

With a curious feeling of self-consciousness Rupert stowed him- 
self in the gallery behind the organ. After service he ran round 
to the vestry to engage the clergyman to be waiting for him at 
eleven next day. Then he went joyfully off to London, never once 
seen by Wrigley — for Wrigley was waiting in the gate-woman’s 
back-room to learn at what hour the marriage should take place. 

“Rupert Barth,” the bans had said — for he had dropped the 
Bidebank, which he knew did not belong to him, and clung only 
to the name by which her ladyship told him he had been chris- 
tened— “ Rupert Barth and Natojie Jdria,” said Wrigley to him- 


THE FATAL HOUR OF NOON. 


221 


self, • “ and who knows any impediment let him now proclaim 
the same.” 

He ground his teeth with fury. 

“To-morrow at ’leven, sir,” said the gate-woman, “I’m to 
be at the church.” 

And then Doctor Wrigley rode off — not homeward, but past 
the hut where Rupert had lain in a fever, and on to another hut 
where Tony Pettigrew lived, and then back to Clematis Villa, 
where he made his wife and two daughters wretched by his snarl- 
ing. Across all the brightness of the spring and the resurrection 
of nature, this man with his envy, his greed, his now bold plot- 
ting of the crudest crimes, moved, a foul blot. Strange that his 
shadow did not blight the primroses and violets where it fell. 

But if it had, they would have sprung again to life where, 
next day, young Natolie passed in her bridal beauty, beside her 
mother and her lover. 

It was ten minutes before the hour, and the rector had not come. 
The church was chilly and gloomy, and the little wedding party 
returned to the sunny porch to wait until the rector arrived. 

What! Fifteen minutes after eleven! He is late. The sun 
looks less bright. Half-past ! 

Rupert is positively anxious. He runs to look along the road. 
He sends the sexton one way ; the gate-woman another. He can 
no longer speak cheerily to Natolie. 

A quarter before twelve ! Will the rector never come ? Cruel 
man to trifle thus with young heart’s love. Ten minutes before 
twelve ! The contessa turns pale. 

Five minutes before the hour ! Is that a tear in Natolie’s soft 
eyes? Rupert is breathless, purple with rage. 

One, two, three — and so on to the fatal hour of noon ! The 
rector has not come. These two stand unwed. The legal hour 
of marriage is past. There will be no wedding to-day. 

“Twelve !” says the contessa. “What has happened?” 

“Twelve !” whispers Natolie. “ Mother, we must go home.” 

“ Twelve !” shouts Rupert. “ Horrible man, why has he done 
this ? But I will send him word, and we will be back to-morrow.” 

Alas, Natolie ! Alas, Rupert ! Not to-morrow, nor the next, 
nor the next, nor many to-morrows ! It lies an open question 
of the future now whether in this church of St. Cleopas you shall 
ever stand — man and wife. 


222 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“MY LIFE IS DREARY — HE COMETH NOT.” 

On the Sabbath when James Wrigley had been informed of the 
hour of the proposed marriage of Sir Rupert and Natolie, he 
made a detour from his road home for the purpose of seeing Tony 
Pettigrew. They had some conversation, Tony standing in the 
door of the little cabin which, hermitlike, he inhabited, and his 
master and evil genius on horseback near him. 

On Monday morning, Tony Pettigrew was on the road, bright 
and early. The direct road from the rectory of the incumbent of 
St. Cleopas to that church lay through woodlands and wide- 
spreading fields for four miles, about half way in its course pass- 
ing the little stone hut whence Timmy Titlow had carried Sir 
Rupert. 

Near the rectory was a larger and more modern church, where 
service was held every evening and on the appointed week-days. 

Tony, perched high in an elm-tree, finally saw the rector, at 
ten, come out of the rectory gate on his nag and pace down the 
road. 

Down from the elm came Mr. Pettigrew and ran for the hut. 
There he crouched until he heard the sound of feet on the soft 
road and saw through the open door the approaching parson. 

“ Oh-h-h-ooo !” groaned Tony, in a terrible voict. He groaned 
even louder. 

The rector checked his nag and listened. 

Another perfectly heart-rending groan from Tony. 

“Hark there! Who’s there? What’s wrong?” cried the 
rector. 

A moan from Tony and a stammer of: 

“ Help ! Oh, IJ’m dying ! Save a poor sinner ! Oh-ooo !” 

This was more than the good man could endure. Here was a 
fellow-mortal in distress — sick, dying, in need of aid, physical and 
spiritual. He alighted, threw the reins on the nag’s neck and 
slowly entered the hut. Coming from daylight the little stone 
room was perfect blackness ; but a moan called the amiable Levite 
toward a corner where he faintly discerned a heap of something. 

Here, in fact, lay Tony; and as the rector bent over him, 


ee MY LIFE IS DREARY — HE COMETH NOT.*’ 


223 


reaching out a hand to touch him, the scoundrel rolled over, 
caught the good man’s legs in his brawny arms and flung him on 
his face. Instantly up sprang Tony, and, darting out of the hut, 
closed the door and fastened it with the heavy iron hooks. The 
clergyman was now securely boxed, and the shouts that he uttered 
came but faintly through the thick walls. 

Looking about to see that the coast was clear, Tony leaped on 
the nag, and galloped a mile back toward the rectory, when he 
tied the beast to a tree. As this was a side road, little travelled, 
save by the rectory people and certain village laborers, who 
passed along about six, morning and evening, to and from their 
work, Tony concluded his prisoner was safe for some hours to 
come, and hastened back to his own present dwelling to be in 
readiness for the next service required by Wrigley. 

Caged in a manner so utterly unprecedented, the good rector 
at first roared lustily for help; but no help came. Having ex- 
hausted himself by his calls, and his eyes becoming accustomed 
to the gloom, and finding the hut entirely empty except for some 
straw, he approached where a line of light indicated the door, and 
strove to burst it open. 

Having no instrument to aid him, he soon perceived that these 
efforts were idle. If he set his shoulder to the door, he merely 
pushed it against the firm resistance of the frame ; if he strove to 
pull it open he had nothing by which to grasp it. The hut had 
neither chimney nor window. Hot, nearly suffocated, his goodly 
black suit cob-webbed and dusty, perspiration pouring over his 
dusty face, and his hair full of ends of straw, the demoralized rec- 
tor concluded that he had only to wait until he heard passing 
steps, and then call for help. 

James Wrigley had already planned how this help was to arrive 
for him. Wrigley meant about two o’clock to be riding by the 
hut, gently humming a tune. The prisoner would then cry to 
him, and he, in deep amaze, would let him out, full of sympathy 
for his misfortunes and of anger at the sinner who had betrayed 
the good man. 

Fortune, however, did not wait on the movements of the astute 
Wrigley. 

Since receiving his legacy, Timmy Titlow had taken a regular 
summer holiday, as became a man of property. He received five 
or six days’ leave, walked to his native village, saw all his “ cousins 


224 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


and his aunts,” and, after a brief sojourn, walked back to his 
duties at the reservoir. 

This very second day of May he was on his return, and the 
rector had not been an hour in durance vile— indeed, it was yet 
about twenty minutes before twelve — when Mr. Titlow came 
tramping down the road, melodiously whistling “Blue Bonnets 
over the Border.” 

The notes of the ditty fell sweet as angelic strains on the ear 
of the prisoner in the hut. He flew at the door, and, beating with 
fists and feet, he roared : 

“Let me out! Open the door ! Ho! Help! Help!” 

“ Save us all !” ejaculated Mr. Titlow. “ I ’m the man for 
adventure !” 

“ Ho, ho ! Help! Open the door!” 

“ I ’ve seen ghosts and I ’ve heard ghosts, and here ’s the noisiest 
ghost I ’ve dealt with yet,” quoth Timmy, very cautiously ap- 
proaching the door ; “ and my ghosts always turn out to be people. 
This sounds like a man.” 

“ Quick ! Open the door ! For Heaven’s sake, open the door !” 

“ And like a wild man,” said Timmy. “I mustbe. very keerful. 
Ho, who ’s in there ?” 

“ Let me out ! I ’m rector of St. Cleopas.” 

“That can’t be possible,” said Timmy. “How came you 
here ?” 

“ I was deceived in here and fastened in. Open the door, in 
the name of Heaven ! I have a marriage in the church and I ’ll 
be too late !” 

“ Were you robbed or murdered?” demanded Timmy, slowly 
revolving this information in his calm mind. 

“ No, no ; it was a trick. Open the door, I say.” 

“ I ’m afraid you ’re crazy and will jump at me,” said Titlow. 

“ No, no. Let me out — or I ’ll have you arrested !” 

“ How can you have me arrested if I don’t open the door?” 

The prisoner pounded harder than ever. 

“ Let me out !” 

“Well, you are wicious,” said Timmy. “Stand by, now. 
I ’ve got a big, thick stick and the greatest kind of a jack-knife, 
all open. If you jump at me, I ’ll let fly. I really will — in self- 
defense. Hold, now ! I ’ll unhook this door, and you can come 
out easy.” 


MY LIFE IS DREARY — HE COMETH NOT.” 


225 


u 


He set himself in a posture of defense, pried up the two big 
hooks, which his cousin Tony had driven firmly down, and as the 
door swung back he set himself to receive the onset of a crazy 
man. 

The unlucky rector came forth meekly, winking his eyes in the 
broad noon light. 

“ You ’re a hard-looking rector,” suggested Timmy T. 

“ So I feel,” said the rector, dubiously, seeking his hat. Then 
he took out his handkerchief to wipe his face. The sight of this 
ecclesiastical cambric was as a wide banner of peace to Mr. Tit- 
low ; he dropped his weapons. 

“Somebody’s served your reverence a vile trick,” he said, 
beginning to brush off his broadcloth. 

The rector took out his watch. In his frantic exertions it had 
stopped. 

“ It ’s about noon,” said Timmy, looking at the sun. 

“ I must hurry on to the church,” said the rector. 

“ I ’ll bear you company,” said Timmy, “ lest you are waylaid 
again, sir.” 

It was half-past twelve when they reached Saint Cleopas — and 
the wedding-party had gone. 

“ The young gentleman was terribly cut up about it,” said the 
sexton to the rector, “ and he left this note. The ladies were 
regular ladies, and the young one is pretty as a picter, and they 
hardly knew how to look. I was main sorry for them.” 

“ So am I,” said the rector, opening Sir Rupert’s note, which 
informed him that the wedding-party would return next day at 
half-past ten, and if anything were likely to hinder the rector from 
performing his duty, the sexton was to be sent that night to 
Hare Street, Bethual, to inform Rupert. 

“ I was just setting out to bring you the note,” said the sexton. 

“ Well, my man, go quickly to Hare Street with this note, 
explaining what has happened. To-morrow I shall surely be 
here on time, for I shall bring three servants with me as a guard. 
Some enemy has done this, and it shall be reported at once to the 
police.” 

The rector went home by a different road, and found one of 
his servants leading up the nag, which he had recently discovered 
tied to a tree. 

At two o’clock Wrigley passed the hut — and found it empty. 


226 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


Uttering imprecations on Tony, he hurried to the church, 
and his friend, the gate-woman, explained to him the non-arrival 
of the clergyman and the disappointment of the young couple. 
She also gave Wrigley the address which Rupert had left for the 
clergyman’s note. 

Furnished with this information, Wrigley hastened into the city 
and inquired of Rupert’s landlady for her young lodger. 

“ The lodgings is give up for to-morrow,” she said, “ and I ’m 
main sorry, for he ’s an elegant young man, and no trouble. 
But land, sir, he ’s to be married, like the rest of them. It ’s 
natural, ain’t it, sir? He has gone over to No. n Bird-Cage 
Walk. That’s where the young lady lives. They was to marry 
this morning, and the clergyman was too late, and it ’s off until 
to-morrow. He feels dreadfully over it.” 

To II Bird-Cage Walk proceeded Wrigley, and dropping into 
the baker’s shop, he inquired for lodgings to let, bought some 
cakes and sat eating them. 

“ We have an apartment for rent, after to-morrow, sir,” said 
the baker’s wife ; and then she told of the wedding that did not 
come off, and of the surprised and disappointed young couple, 
now trying to take a cheerful view of affairs, in the “first-floor 
front.” “The boxes, sir, was all corded up, and the lady, the 
mother, had paid her bills, and treated the servant and the chil- 
dren ’andsome. I ’ll never see as nice lodgers in my first-floor 
front again, sir.” 

It was now five o’clock. 

Wrigley went out, sent a dispatch to Tony Pettigrew at the 
Kilburn office, where that worthy was in waiting, and then, being 
assured that Rupert was still at No. n Bird-Cage Walk, he 
called for a supper at a little chop-house, where he sat in a win- 
dow commanding a view of the baker’s front door. 

When it grew dark he went out, here and there on the block, 
until at ten his patience was rewarded by seeing Rupert leave 
No. ii and start toward Hare Street. 

Since noon, it had been to Rupert, to Natolie and the contessa 
a strange, uncomfortable day. 

All arrangements had been made to proceed, directly after the 
marriage, to the house in Hackney. 

A dinner had been ordered to be sent there at five, and the serv- 
ant was to appear at four. 


MY LIFE IS DREARY— HE COMETH NOT.” 


227 


a 


In the confesses lodgings and in Rupert’s lodgings boxes were 
standing, corded, ready to be carried away by the man who was to 
have been sent for them that evening. Nearly all their joint 
possessions had already gone over to the Hackney house. 

The rooms, despoiled of the decorations and familiar articles 
which had made them look homelike, had a most bare and for- 
bidding appearance. The world seemed to have somehow rolled 
out of its course. 

The contessa felt oppressed with a sense of coming evil, with 
which she battled as a superstition. 

Natolie was so bewildered that she would have liked to cry ; but 
crying was not her forte, and she resisted the impulse. 

On returning to the city, with all their plans disorganized, 
Rupert proposed that they should go over to Hackney as they 
expected, have the dinner as it was ordered, and set up their 
housekeeping. 

In this plan, as it proved, was safety, but it did not please the 
contessa. 

The house at Hackney was Rupert’s, and she and her child 
could not take up their abode there until the marriage ceremony 
had been performed. They must each return to their former 
lodgings. 

Rupert then accompanied them to the Cannon Street hotel, 
ordered a dinner in a private parlor, and went to the wholesale 
house where he was employed to explain his misfortunes to the 
chief clerk and ask for one day’s extension of his leave of absence. 

After the dinner, he had gone a moment to Hare Street, to tell 
his landlady where to send any message that might come from the 
rector, and then adjourned with the contessa and Natolie to Bird- 
Cage Walk. The rector’s note arrived, by favor of the sexton, 
between five and six, and great was the wonder it occasioned. 

The contessa almost admitted that she believed something of 
evil impended, and this was not the last of their misfortunes. 

“ I feel so, too,” declared Rupert, “and I think we should not 
divide our forces. You and Natolie cannot sit up all night, 
but I can see if your landlady has a sitting-room or some sort of a 
shelter for me, and I will stay here.” 

Doubtless his good angel inspired the proposition, but the 
contessa' s sense of propriety combated it. 

That would never do. She could take care of her daughter. 


228 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


Hare Street was not so far away. By eight next morning Rupert 
could return, and they would set out once more for St. Cleopas. 

Fie ! What a foolish pair of children they were ! It was now 
ten — it would be but ten hours before they met, and to-morrow 
evening they could laugh at all the misadventures of the day ! 

Thus she cheered up the young pair, and they finally parted 
with smiles. 

Silence now settled in Bird-Cage Walk. The contessa and her 
daughter retired, but neither slept. They were both awake at 
one, when a carriage rattled to the door, and they heard a voice 
asking if the Contessa Idria lived there. 

“Mother! Mother !” cried Natolie, springing up. “Some- 
thing dreadful has happened!” 

The contessa threw on a wrapper and stepped into a hall. 
The baker had opened the front door. 

“ I am here,” said the contessa , from the top of the stairs. 

The man from the carriage stepped inside. 

“ Please, ma’am, is it your daughter, Miss Idria, is to marry 
young Mr. Rupert — Rupert Barth?” 

“Yes — it is,” said the contessa. 

“ And, if you please, I ’m sorry to bring bad news ; but she is 
sent for. He is hurt — he has had a terrible fall. I have the 
carriage here for her to come quickly.” 

Natolie, who stood at her mother’s shoulder, gave a wild scream. 

“ We will come in an instant,” said the contessa. “ Natolie, my 
dearest, this is the time for self-control. Child — dress yourself, 
and we will go. I trust this will not prove serious.” 

With trembling haste the two women dressed; Natolie kept 
sobbing as her fingers flew over buttons and hooks — and so indeed 
did the contessa. 

In a brief space they were dressed and shawled, and taking 
nothing with them, they hurried to the carriage. The civil-spoken 
man was holding open the door ; the baker, standing bareheaded 
and barefooted, expressed his sympathy, and exhorted them to 
keep their courage up, and they whirled away. 

They tore along far faster than they knew. 

“ Mother, we must be there by now !” cried Natolie. 

Still the carriage sped on. The contessa tried to pull down the 
window, but it would not move. 

“ Where are we going?” she cried. 


MY LIFE IS DREARY — HE COMETH NOT. 


229 


a 


“ Mother ! Mother l” screamed Natolie, “ I am sure we have 
been in here long enough to travel over half London. My Rupert 
will die before I get to him. Mother, break the window ! Make 
that man hear !” 

The contessa called to the driver, and beat on the roof of the 
cab and on the back of the driver’s seat. 

“ Aye !” cried the man, suddenly, putting his mouth to a slide 
near the seat. 

“ Where are you going ? We should have been at Hare Street 
long ago !” 

“ Aye, ma’am, I ’m taking you where the gentleman is — out to 
Bidebank Hall, ma’am.” 

“ To Bidebank Hall ? He is not there !” 

“He were sent for there this evening, ma’am. I’m a servant 
there, please, and he fell down the great stairs as he went up — and 
Lord Bidebank is there, now, and he sent for the young lady.” 

The man shouted this information as he drove on at full speed. 

“ My Rupert will die ! Die before I get to him !” cried poor 
Natolie, in floods of tears. 

“We shall soon beat Bidebank, at this rate,” said the contessa, 
also weeping. 

On, on, on ! Would that drive never end ? The contessa accused 
herself of impatience, of nervousness. She again forced the driver’s 
attention. 

“Man! Where are you going? We should have been at 
Bidebank before this !” 

“ Oh, no, ma’am ! It seems long to you. But the sewers are 
up, and I had to go roundaway. The horses is tired, ma’am — 
they goes slow.” 

“ They ’re tearing — I never went so fast,” said Natolie. “I 
know he has lost his way !” 

“ I cannot see anything, it is so dark,” said her mother. 

On, on, on, furiously ! They had passed Hamstead Heath with- 
out knowing it, and on, on, into the open country. They were 
helpless — they could only go on, on. 

At last the carriage stopped. The man opened the door in 
the darkness to the women, half dead with terror, sorrow and 
fatigue. 

They were at some great dark stone building, and they alighted 
on a flight of steps. The driver led them up respectfully, saying : 


230 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“Well, ma’am, we’re here.” 

He tried the door. Then he pulled the bell. 

Natolie and the contessa clung, shivering, together. 

The door was unbolted, and a great, dark, bare hall appeared, 
lit only by a flickering candle, carried by a woman who opened 
the door. 

“ This way, please,” she said. “ The house has been so long 
empty; this way, please.” 

“ Mother ! Where are we ?” cried Natolie. “ Oh, how is 
Rupert? Where is he? Is he dead?” 

“ No, no, miss, he is better. Come this way, please, to a 
sitting-room. All is in such confusion here.” 

The contessa moved a step or two, regaining possession of her- 
self. Then she threw her arms about her daughter’s waist. 

“ Child, stop ! Woman, where are we ? Answer me ! What 
does this mean ? This is not Bidebank Hall !” 

Just then the door clanged behind them, a lock turned outside, 
wheels drove away. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

WORDS WRITTEN IN BLOOD. 

As the contessa exclaimed that this was not Bidebank Hall, the 
woman who carried the candle opened a door to a large, cheerless 
sitting-room. 

“In here, please,” she repeated, monotonously. “ Oh, yes, it 
is Bidebank ’All. You were never in the rear before, ma’am. Serv- 
ants’ quarters isn’t like quality’s quarters. I ’m keeping the ’All 
now. Lord Bidebank seldom comes. I ’ll go see now if the young 
lady is to go to the young gentleman immejit.” 

She set down the candle, and left mother and daughter looking 
apprehensively at each other in the flickering light. 

Presently the woman returned. 

“ The young lady will please come.” 

“ We will both go,” said the contessa. 

“ The doctor says he is to see but one at a time. You wouldn’t 
like to harm him, my lady, by excitement.” 

“Mamma, I must go,” pleaded Natolie. 


WORDS WRITTEN IN BLOOD. 


231 


“ Not without me” said the contessa, firmly. 

The three stood silent for an instant. 

“ Suppose, then, my lady, that you come first and satisfy your- 
self, and then I’ll call miss.” 

“ Oh, be quick, mamma, or I shall go wild !” said Natolie. 

“ Why not both together? We are quite composed.” 

“My lady, I daren't disobey doctor’s strict orders.” 

“Go, go, mamma!” said Natolie, pushing her mother gently 
toward the door. 

The unhappy contessa bade her daughter remain there, and she 
would return within five minutes, and followed her guide, who 
had secured another candle. 

They passed up a stairway and into a rear room. The woman 
told the contessa she would just look into the bedroom to see 
if all were ready, and passed through a door, leaving the contessa 
in darkness. 

The five minutes promised to Natolie went by, and still the 
contessa stood alone. 

Much alarmed, she called aloud several times. She then walked 
forward until she touched the wall, and passed along it, moving her 
hand over the wainscoting until she found a door. This she tried 
vainly to open. She knocked and shook the handle, but got no 
response. She moved on until she found another door, also fast. 
She then began to move hurriedly around, trying whatever doors 
she found, also a window, until, in the darkness and her excite- 
ment, she had been around the apartment several times. She 
stamped upon the floor and beat the wall, and then sank, exhausted. 
By this time she saw the faint gray of spring dawn creeping 
in at two apertures high up toward the ceiling. 

An hour or more passed over the wretched contessa. Then the 
day had fully come to the outer world, and she saw her prison by 
the little light which came in through two crescents cut in the 
heavy oak shutters. There was a worn carpet on the floor, a 
chair and a little cloth cot without any dressing. There were 
two doors and one window. This window was firmly fastened 
down, and had a wire screen inside, and oaken shutters outside. 

Having made another effort to call her captors, the contessa , 
who was of stately height, climbed upon the chair and the 
window-sill to look out through the narrow crescent in the top of 
the shutter. 


232 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


She saw no roofs, only tree-tops, and far away a strip of 
ploughed field. 

She was in a state of frenzy. Where was her idolized daughter? 
How had they been betrayed into this place ? Her mind first 
fastened on Rupert. 

Had he deceived them all along? Was he not really poor, 
and was he not really desirous of marrying Natolie? Was the 
non-appearance of the rector a part of his whole plan, and had 
he inveigled them here, by that pitiful tale, to separate the 
daughter from the guardianship of her mother ? 

The contessa’s brain whirled. Her heart beat as if to suffocate 
her ; her blood boiled. She was frantic. 

Natolie, oh, Natolie ! Where was the girl ? To what horrible 
dangers was she exposed ? 

Then, recalling all their intercourse with Rupert — the thousand 
and one little points which proved his truth and worth — she felt 
sure he was not their deceiver. He, too, was a victim with them. 

He had seemed always to be pursued by some enemy; and 
here was another blow from the hostile hand. But that made it 
no better for Natolie. 

What fear, what anxiety, what anguish at the loss of her mother 
was not the poor girl enduring ! 

Hour after hour passed. The whole place was as still as that 
“Moated Grange” where dwelt the poet’s Mariana. No sound of 
animal life without, no creak or clash of door within ; no tread of 
foot or roll of wheel. Silence as of death brooding all around. 

Hour after hour and noon had gone by. 

The contessa sat upright, wide-eyed, sleepless, faint from 
sorrow and fasting. 

Possibly she fell into a stupor; possibly her keeper came light- 
footed as sleep : for suddenly the door opened, and the woman 
whom she had seen the preceding night entered, carrying a tray, 
on which were provisions and a burning candle. 

The contessa sprang to her feet and dashed past the woman 
and out through the door by which she had entered. The 
woman stood placidly, waiting for her to return. 

The contessa had merely rushed into a small lobby, with no 
window and unlocked door. She flew back to the woman, who 
had set her tray on the floor, and giving her a violent shake, 
she cried : 


WORDS WRITTEN IN BLOOD. 


233 


u Let me out this instant ! How dare you treat me in this 
manner ? Where is my daughter ? Tell me, where is my child ?” 

The woman, who was Mrs. Tony Pettigrew, stood perfectly 
passive. As the contessa ceased, exhausted, she said, calmly : 

“ I thought you would be hungry, ma’am. Will you be 
pleased to eat a meal ?” 

“To eat!” screamed the contessa . “I want my child, my 
Natolie! Where is she?” 

“ She is quite comfortable,” said Mrs. Tony, “and safe.” 

“Not without her mother ! Take me to her ! Wicked, 
monstrous creature ! Where is my child ?” 

“ My lady, won’t you eat your meal ?” 

“ No ! I cannot eat ! And, woman, if you separate a mother 
from her child, the heaviest curse of God will fall on you. 
Have you no humanity ? Do you not fear the wrath of Heaven 
on crime ? Have you no children ? Have you no feeling ?” 

“Well, I ’ve one child; but I don’t know as I trouble much 
abou him, and I never was brought up to have feeling. I don’t 
see as I ’ve hurt you any.” 

“ What ! And divided me from my daughter ?” 

“ The young lady is' old enough to fend for herself.” 

“Tell me, wretch, who ordered you to bring us here? Was 
it Rupert Barth ?” 

“ Do you mean him as was with Lady Bidebank?” 

“ Yes, yes ! Was it he ?” 

“ No — it wasn’t. Where is he ?” 

“ I will tell you if you will let me out or take me to my 
daughter.” 

“Well, ma’am,” sighed Mrs. Tony, “once I would have told 
you anything for the sake of finding that young gentleman. But 
my luck ’s been bad, and now it won’t do me any good to see 
him. My chance is to serve them as brought me here. But I tell 
you, my lady, there ’s no harm to be done to you or the miss.” 

The contessa suddenly put out her hand, gasped and fainted. 

Mrs. Pettigrew lifted her up, laid her on the couch, emptied a 
glass of water over her face and, taking up her tray, disap- 
peared. 

When the contessa recovered herself she was alone. She lay 
exhausted, watching the slow waning of the light in the crescents 
in the window. All had long been dark, when Mrs. Pettigrew 


234 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


returned with a tray and a little table. The contessa was so faint 
she could scarcely move. 

“ Come,” said Mrs. Pettigrew, anxiously. “You eat a bite and 
drink a cup of tea. Why, you ’re going to see your girl some 
time. What good o’ trying to kill yourself wi’ starvationing ? 
You won’t be fit to go o.ut, if you can go out. Come, take this 
tea.” 

The contessa felt ready to obey, when it came into her mind 
that she was to be poisoned. She was sitting on the cot, the 
table before her; and looking suspiciously at her keeper, she 
said : 

“ Will you drink a cup of this tea !” 

Mrs. Pettigrew laughed. 

“ Lawk ! Do you think I ’m going to poison of you?” 

She drew the chair to the other side of the stand. 

“ There — if that ’s all as is resting on your mind, why, give 
me a cup of tea, and milk and sugar in it, too — and I ’ll eat any 
roll you pick out for me. And there ’s an egg. Who ’s going to 
p’ison a boiled egg ? As for the butter, I don’t praise it — it ’s 
strong; but there’s jam. And I’ll cook you whatsoever you 
say, as is in the house. I don’t want you to go and be sick or die 
on my hands. I ’m none so fond of nursing sick people.” 

The contessa drank her tea — and feel’ing the truth of her 
keeper’s remarks, and that she surely could not benefit her 
daughter by starving, she took some of the supper. 

“ Woman,” she said to Mrs. Pettigrew, “I surely have never 
harmed you. Why are you my enemy? Let me go from here. 
Give me my daughter. Set us on the road to London. See, here 
is my watch — it is set with jewels — and this ring is valuable. L 
will give them to you ; and, if you will appoint a place to meet 
us, I will give you a hundred pounds, and no questions asked.” 

Mrs. Tony looked longingly at the jewels. She replied : 

“ There ’s no chance for such as me to get money on them 
kind of things. We ’re accused of stealing, and the brokers give 
us so little.” 

“Well, but the money — the hundred pounds. I will make it 
two hundred — you can set the place to get it within a week — if 
you will let me and my daughter go free !” 

“But, ma’am, where would you get it? I’ve heard as you 
lost all your money.” 


WORDS WRITTEN IN BLOOD. 


235 


“ I can get it ! I can get it of Miss Barth !” cried the con- 
tessa , eagerly and incautiously. 

The very word presented to Mrs. Pettigrew justice. With the 
name Barth rose up the consciousness of the crime she was shar- 
ing, and that she might involve herself in criminal proceedings. 
The penal settlements or prison and hard labor for life might 
follow upon the release of the contessa. Mrs. Tony never dealt 
in good faith, and she did not think any one else would. She 
hesitated no longer ; she drew back. 

“’T ain’t possible,” she said. “I’ve nothing to do with 
it. I serve others. I ’m no party. I don’t know the rights of 
the case.” 

She took her light and hurried from the room. 

The contessa fell back on the cot. She felt some hope that 
she might be able to bribe her keeper, and she began to con- 
sider how it should be done. She was thoroughly exhausted. 
Her meal induced drowsiness, and worn out by all through which 
she had passed, she fell into a fevered sleep. 

In this sleep Mrs. Tony found her tossing and moaning when 
she entered the room the next day. She did not rouse her, but 
reported to Tony that the contessa was likely to have a course 
of fever and die on their hands, and that matters were going too 
far. She and Tony would find themselves in a murder scrape 
next, and who ’d be their friend then ? 

All day the contessa lay on the cot with a racking headache, 
weeping and moaning for her child, or with tottering steps walked 
the floor. 

At nightfall Mrs. Tony assured her that she should see her 
child next day, and persuaded her to eat something and lie down 
to sleep. The young lady was well, and all would be explained. 

The contessa expected no good from any explanation, but she 
was too exhausted to do otherwise than lie on the cot. 

There, at length, she fell into a profound sleep. 

About one o’clock Mrs. Pettigrew cautiously entered. She 
had in her hand a bottle and a sponge, and she administered 
chloroform to the unconscious contessa. She then put in the 
poor lady’s pocket a biscuit and a little bottle of wine. 

Tony came in, and the two wrapped the contessa in her shawl 
and carried her down-stairs, placing her in a carriage which stood 
by the door. 


236 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


Mrs. Pettigrew was singularly careful that her victim should 
be comfortable. She arranged the cushions and supported the 
poor lady’s head and feet. 

In doing this she held a lantern inside the carriage, and for a 
moment the light fell full upon the face of the contessa. 

The prisoner being arranged in the carriage, Tony mounted 
the box to drive away. 

“ I ’ll be back if I don’t break my neck,” he said. 

“ It ’s a pity you would not break your neck,” retorted his 
loving spouse. 

Then she went into the house and repented heartily that she 
had not seized the contessa 1 s offer of the jewels and the money. 

Tony, meanwhile, drove furiously due north. He had a pair 
of good horses, and spared not the whip as the animals plunged, 
reeking, onward. 

He directed his course toward the town of Ware. The gray 
morning dawned as he came to some open fields about two 
miles from Ware. 

Then he descended from his box, opened the carriage door and 
looked at the contessa. He felt her hand. He listened to her 
breathing. She was in a sleep or a stupor. 

There was a break in the hedge which bordered the road near 
him, and within the hedge a large tree, having a rustic seat be- 
neath it. 

Tony carried the contessa to this seat, supporting her against 
the arm of the bench and the bole of the tree. He then drove 
off eastward for eight miles, and put up his exhausted horses at 
an inn. 

The dewy freshness of the May morning air revived the contessa. 
She began to recover consciousness. The long repose, the change 
of place, the sweetness of the light and fresh air, dispelled for the 
time the fever and pain which had oppressed her. Looking 
around at first in vague bewilderment, she began to recall past 
events. Was she dreaming? She felt for her handkerchief, and 
discovered the roll and flask of port-wine. She ate and drank. 
Yes, she was awake and free. Where, she did not know, nor did 
she know how long she had been parted from her child. Her duty 
now was to be firm and calm and rescue her daughter. 

Feeling strengthened by the food she had taken, she stood 
up on the bench where she had been seated, and looked over the 


WORDS WRITTEN IN BLOOD. 


2 37 


country. Far off she saw a church spire above the trees. Thither 
she would direct her steps. She entered the high-road, and, 
forgetting her weakness, hurried along. 

Meeting a countryman, she asked him : 

“ What is this next town ?” 

“ Ware,” he replied, staring at the lady and her question. 

“ And how far is Ware from London ?” 

“’Tween thirty an’ forty miles.” 

“ And is there a railroad ?” 

“Aye — there ’s a railroad.” 

On she went. Presently the contessa sat down to rest. 

What should she do ? 

She felt her head reeling, her strength failing. She wondered 
where she should turn. 

In closing her affairs, when she left Bidebank Lodge, she had 
had business with Mr. Mellodew. She recalled him as a courteous 
and honorable gentleman, shrewd and generous. She did not re- 
member his address, but concluded to find it in a directory, and 
apply at once to him when she reached London. From Mr. 
Mellodew she would go to Miss Barth and beseech the aid of her 
money and her practical wisdom to find her Natolie. 

She pursued her way, and entering the station at Ware, she 
found that a train would not start for London for an hour. She 
went to the ticket-office agent, and drawing off her ring, said: 

“ I have lost my pocketbook — and — will you give me a ticket 
to London for this ring ?” 

“We don’t take jewelry,” replied the clerk, gruffly. 

The poor contessa tottered, rebuffed, to a seat. She could, 
perhaps, offer a richer exchange. She felt for her watch ; that 
was gone. 

Her exhausted and wretched face, her air of grace and refine- 
ment stirred the grim agent in spite of himself. He looked — and 
looked — and at last he approached her. 

“ Madam, I can lend you half a pound for your ticket.” 

“ Oh, thanks, thanks !” murmured the contessa. “ And pray 
take this ring until I send for it.” 

She then purchased a cup of tea at the stand, and presently 
entered the train for London. She concluded to look in a 
directory at the London station, and then take a cab to Mr. 
Mellodew’s. But as the train rushed on, the wheels seemed 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


238 

rushing over the poor contessa's brain. Strange lights danced 
before her burning eyes — her breath came fitfully ; a sharp pain 
pierced her temples ; she seemed losing self-control, and lost, 
at times, consciousness. She was in a third-class car, and she 
thought that the people stared at her, and intended to do her 
injury. 

The train entered the London station. Every one sprang to 
escape, as if life depended on their speed. The poor contessa also 
rose, and jostled by the rude throng, staggered to the platform. 

The next instant a dozen people were running and exclaiming : 

“ A lady has fallen insensible !” 

The contessa was carried into the waiting-room and a physician 
summoned. The poor creature lay there without friends ; no one 
knew her name or destination. She had no valuables, no lug- 
gage, no money but a few shillings. At the very outer circle of 
the great whirlpool of London she had fallen like a dead leaf, to 
be swept in the vortex and out of every one’s knowledge. 

“It is a case of brain-fever,” said the surgeon. “ She looks 
like a lady. She is a lady ! In a third-class car ! Poor thing ! 
Here is some other story of misery. She must be taken to a hos- 
pital. I will make out an order for her to enter the London 
Hospital, Whitechapel Road. She is not likely to live long.” 

A litter was brought, the physician wrote a note, the curtains 
were drawn around the contessa , and she was carried away. It 
might have been a drunken woman or a crazy woman, for all 
careless London knew, as she was taken through street after 
street to Whitechapel Road. She was taken in there just as 
Mr. Mellodew entered his chambers. Therefore, while the 
cotitessa had hoped to be Mr. Mellodew’s first visitor that morning, 
instead, her enemy, James Wrigley, appeared first at the lawyer’s 
rooms. 

The errand of Wrigley was to pay a bill — a performance in 
which he had but seldom indulged. 

In Mr. Mellodew’s favor he must make an exception to his 
general rule of allowing accounts to stand. 

Wrigley had found himself in possession of a five-pound note, 
which he concluded to be counterfeit. 

It was an old and faded note, with faint red lines along one 
edge, and a small round drop on one corner, which rust-colored 
spot Wrigley took for some acid. 


words written in blood. 


239 


This note he carefully laid in the center of his packet, fastening 
all together with a bit of tape. 

Mr. Mellodew accepted the packet, making no objection to the 
suspected note. 

However, having taken out this very five-pound note during the 
day to pay a clerk, Mr. Mellodew noticed its peculiar appear- 
ance, and used another in its place. Sitting in his sunny, drowsy 
office that afternoon, he studied this bit of paper with its lines 
and spatter of discoloration. 

“Hah,” he said, “I’ll try Brice with this. He is always 
worming into such things. Let us see if his science can expound 
the color on this note.” 

Accordingly, about five o’clock, instead of going home, he 
went to Doctor Brice, saying : 

“ See here, Brice, you are always getting your name in the 
papers and electrifying some court or another by your investiga- 
tion of spots and traces. Tell me what is this rust color on this 
five-pound note, and carry science further and say who put it 
there, and why !” 

Mr. Mellodew dropped, chuckling, into a chair, and Doctor 
Brice bustled about his laboratory, intent on his favorite investi- 
gations. 

“ Mellodew,” he cried, “this is blood — human blood /” 

“ Tut ! Dog’s or rabbit’s ; don’t image a horror !” 

“No, Mellodew, it ’s human, this spatter, and the lines are 
just like it. The corpuscles of human blood, you see, fall in 
different forms from those of other animals. As snow-flakes have 
their forms, so do these atoms in our blood. Nature main- 
tains her integrity, and does not vary her patterns. If old 
Jacob had had modern sciemre and modern microscopes, he 
would not have been beguiled by any cock-and-bull story about 
that kid’s blood on Joseph’s coat.” 

The doctor, meanwhile, put a powerful microscope over the 
red lines, in the sunshine. He gave a cry: 

“Oh, good heavens ! Mellodew, here!” Mr. Mellodew 
sprang to look where his friend pointed with a wavering finger. 
Clearly under the glass he saw these words: 

"Jasper Fitzroy, of Fitzroy Towers, Middlesex, Eng., captive to rbrahaina 
Ben Edin, on G. of Adalia. Rescue ! For God’s sake !” 

“ That,” said Doctor Brice, in a faltering tone, “ is poor Fitz- 


240 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


roy’s cry for help, written in his own blood ! And how long has 
it blown unheeded on the winds? The note looks old.” 

“ We made sure that he perished at sea,” said the lawyer, “ and 
Miss Barth has worn mourning for him all these years!” 

“ By this time,” said Doctor Brice, “ he is probably dead. We 
must take this to Miss Barth, and we must arrange to investigate 
the matter. An Englishman and a brother, the lad we knew so 
long ago, must be searched for until we are assured of his death. 
Poor fellow ! How long he has waited in the hands of some bar- 
barous Turk for an answer to that blood-written cry !” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

A WILL AND TESTAMENT. 

Doctor Brice and Mr. Mellodew set off for Barth House with- 
out delay. They were taken to the library, where Miss Barth 
was writing. These two gentlemen had not been accustomed to 
visit her together ; their faces were full of excitement and im- 
portance, and Doctor Brice carried his beloved microscope-case 
under his arm. 

“ Miss Barth,” said the doctor, “we have come upon some 
very strange information to-day, in regard to one whom we all 
supposed dead, long ago !” 

“What!” cried Myra, springing to her feet. “Have you 
found the child — Elizabeth’s boy ?” 

And then all at once her suspicions of herself rushed upon 
her, and she froze into calm, bracing herself for that terrible 
charge of — murder. 

“He would be a child no longer,” said the lawyer; “re- 
member — now a man — nearly twenty-one.” 

“ No,” said Doctor Brice, “ we do not speak of the boy ; he is 
gone forever ; and if he were found it might be only so much the 
worse if this great fortune went into a ruffian’s hands. There 
was another lost at that same time — another, long and faithfully 
mourned. We speak — ” he glanced at Myra’s widow’s robe — “ of 
Jasper Fitzroy.” 

“ Of Jasper !” gasped Myra. 


“ Of Jasper ! He is dead.” 


A WILL AND TESTAMENT. 


241 


“ He probably is — and yet he may not be ; he did not perish 
in the wreck of the Ocean Queen” 

Myra sank back into her seat. Her bosom heaved. She 
looked from one to another. 

“We have something to show you — something which we only 
discovered a little while ago. Miss Barth, are you calm enough 
to read a message from Jasper Fitzroy through this microscope ?” 

Myra approached the stand, where he placed the note under 
the lens. 

She read. Her face flushed with joy. 

“There is no date,” said the lawyer, softly. “It is doubt- 
less long, very long, since this was written. Heaven has, per- 
haps, rescued him — by death.” 

Myra shook from head to foot. Her eyes sought the eastern 
distance as if they would pierce the long space which lay between 
herself and her lover. 

“Oh, Jasper! Jasper!” she cried. “A captive, alone, unan- 
swered all these years, and all for me !” 

The lawyer and the doctor glanced at each other and at Miss 
Barth. Here was a revelation. This long-silent nature had hid- 
den the strength of its love and of its sorrow. In all these years 
had those depths of tenderness and anguish been repressed, 
breaking forth now in that passionate cry: 

“Jasper — Jasper !” 

She began to pace the library with hasty steps. 

“ Why do we delay?” she cried. “ Why are we here ? Every 
moment of delay is agony to him if he is living. Every moment 
threatens to make us too late. At once ! At once ! We must 
answer him ! We would fly to rescue a stranger — and for him / 
Oh, Jasper ! Jasper !” 

The library was silent but for the stormy sobs that for a moment 
shook Myra Barth’s breast. 

Then she recovered herself. 

The terror of the retrospect concerning the lost boy left her; 
the weakness of the sorrow that had gushed forth at the thought 
of Jasper. Then she returned to her strength, her power of plan- 
ning. She stopped before a large map hanging between the 
windows. Her eye sought out the Gulf of Adalia. She glanced 
back over the lands between. She mused a moment. 

“ Mr. Mellodew,” she said, “ you will go and find him.” 


A SLJSEP-WALKER. 


242 

The lawyer bowed. 

“ I will give you a check for ten thousand pounds. Beyond 
that my banker will be instructed to honor your demands. Take 
some one with you.” 

Again she glanced at the map and ran over the route in her 
mind. 

“ You can go from here to Paris, thence to Milan and Brindisi. 
There charter a small steamer, telegraph the case to the British 
minister at Constantinople, and get his intervention and his in- 
structions to the consul and authorities at Smyrna. It will be 
needful to proceed circumspectly, for fear that this Turk Ibra- 
haim may get his prisoner out of your way. The consul at 
Smyrna can, perhaps, go with you to the Gulf of Adalia. Money 
shall not be wanting. And you will go quickly, sir?” 

Mr. Mellodew, finding his course so promptly and completely 
mapped out for him, declared that he would set out for Dover in 
the midnight train. It being already past eight, there was need 
of haste. They caught the train to the Great Western station 
within fifteen minutes, and whirled to the city. 

By this brief interview the whole current of Myra Barth’s life 
seemed changed. Her mind was absorbed in Jasper Fitzroy. She 
counted the long years between his wreck and the present. She 
lived over with him, in fancy, the slow, heart-sickening delay 
since that appeal for help had been written in his blood. She told 
herself that he was surely dead. 

Then her thoughts passed on to imagine a day of his return. 
Would long miseries have killed love in his heart? Would she 
have faded from his mind, or would he expect her to fulfill the 
promise of her early years ? 

But that could never be. How did she hold these estates? 
Only by having forcibly dispossessed the infant heir. His death, 
or his moral ruin if he had grown up in evil surroundings, rested 
on her, and judgment for that crime, she morbidly told herself, 
would haunt her house. And yet she had been very sorely 
tempted to marry many times to rid herself of James Wrigley. 
Now, if Jasper Fitzroy returned, would she be able to pass over 
to him his estate, which had cost her a hundred thousand pounds ? 
Could not Wrigley interfere to prevent her alienating so large a 
portion of capital, and must Fitzroy return only to see his ances- 
tral estate going over to those same Wrigleys ? 


A WILL AND TESTAMENT. 


243 


Whichever way she looked at these complicated affairs, they 
were full of unrest and pain. The long night which she spent 
pacing her library was but an earnest of long days of torment 
to come. 

Outside the library door watched Ailsa Wallace. What had 
happened ? Finally she entered. 

“ It is two o’clock the morn, dearie ! Will ye no’ go to bed? 
I 'm wae to see ye ganging this gait.” 

“ Go to bed, Ailsa. I cannot sleep.” 

“ And winna ye tell yer ain mimmie what ails ye ? Now, 
lambie, whaur else is there ain as loves ye sae weel as auld 
Ailsa ?” 

True enough. This magnificent woman was far richer in gold 
than in friendship. 

At these years she might have expected^ to be the center of 
some household group — husband and children around her — 
friendships and relationships striking out, like a banyan’s prodi- 
gal boughs, on every side. And yet she stood alone, the old 
Scotch nurse and Mi, her adopted child, the only ones who held 
her dear. A few bitter tears stole down her cheeks as she thought 
of this in the silence of the night. Here in this room, by this 
very table, lit by this same lamp, her father had died, that mid- 
night more than twenty-one years ago. And since then loneli- 
ness and loss had still waited on his heirs. 

Again Ailsa was at the door. 

“Hinny, winna ye tell auld Ailsa what frets ye?” 

Myra was weary of her lonely battle. 

Even this sympathy and affection would console her. She 
sank down in the chair in which her father had died, and she 
told Ailsa the story of the message written in the blood of Jasper 
Fitzroy. 

“Keep your heart up, my ain dearie,” said Ailsa cheerfully, 
“he’s nc>’ dead yet. They’ll fin’ him; he’ll come back. He 
was a braw lad, and he ’ll be a braw mon, and it ’s no’ o’er late 
yet to marry. I ’ll see ye a bonnie bride yet.” 

“ Never ! Never !” said Myra. “ I dare not marry.” 

“'Come, then, lambie; when your puir lad has toiled in slav- 
ery sic a mony year, and had but ain hope in his heart, and has 
suffered all things, will ye no’ make his last days happy, an’ 
gi’e him ony recompense for a’ his troubles? Fie, lassie!” 


244 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ Don’t tempt me,” sighed Myra; “but I’m sure he will not 
be found alive.” 

“So much the better for him” said the wily Ailsa, “if so be 
for ony nonsense ye mean to disappoint the last hope he has in 
sic a weary warl ! Atweel, hinny, ye mon be verra fond o’ 
Wrigleys , when ye hold so close to leavin’ thei7i all the bonny 
acres o’ Barth and Fitzroy !” 

In this tumult of her fears and anxieties about Jasper Fitzroy, 
Myra found all the sorrows of those first years of his and the 
child’s disappearance returned upon her. 

She had arranged to have a festivity of some kind on Mi’s 
birthday. She had reproached herself for not taking the child 
into the society customary at her age, and she designed to call 
the young people of the neighboring families together for a 
birthday ball. That week the invitations were to be sent out, 
and Wrigley was bustling with importance, as he always did 
when any event would bring him nearer to the Barth in- 
terests. 

He came in that morning, when Mi and Miss Barth were at 
breakfast, bringing with him a fresh list of those to whom invita- 
tions should be sent. 

“ Lord Bidebank’s second son is home, and we can get him 
here,” he cried. “ He has shown you particular attention, Mi. 
There ’s a match for you! We have not done our duty by this 
child, my cousin, in keeping her in the shade so long !” 

“I must put off this ball!” cried Myra, desperately. “Dear 
Mi, I am sorry to disappoint you, but I cannot have my house 
full of music and dancing when I feel all my old sorrows re- 
opened, as if —as if I were widowed again !” she added, looking at 
her weeds. 

“ Oh, I ’d much rather give it up than make you unhappy !” 
cried Mi, heartily. 

“ What is this ?” demanded Wrigley, sulkily. “ What chance 
for a market will my girl have, kept here in the shade like a her- 
mit ?” 

“ Oh, father !” cried poor Mi, blushing. 

“ I am in deep distress,” said Myra. “ I have heard from — Jas- 
per Fitzroy — ” 

Wrigley leaped to his feet. 

“He did not perish in the Ocean Queen” 


A WILL AND TESTAMENT. 


245 


Wrigley thought of his long-forgotten letter, and uttered an 
inaudible curse. 

“ He has been long a captive to a Turk. He may be dead or 
dying; but while his fate hangs in abeyance I camiot join in any 
festivity.” 

“ But what!” shouted Wrigley. “How did you learn this? 
What do you mean to do ? How will you learn more ?” 

“ He wrote the fact — when, I cannot tell — and the message 
only last night reached me,” said Myra, hastily. “ What I must 
do is to send to rescue him if he is yet alive.” 

“My cousin,” said Wrigley, with enthusiasm, “this is a work 
worthy of a woman and an angel — worthy of yourself. You must 
send to rescue your unlucky friend. Make no delay. Give me 
your commands, /will be your messenger. No business of 
mine is so important as this work of charity. I will set off to- 
morrow.” 

“My messenger has gone,” said Myra, calmly. “I have dis- 
patched Mr. Mellodew with ten thousand pounds.” 

“ ‘ Ten thousand pounds !' ” said Wrigley, faintly. “ ‘Mello- 
dew ! * I could have done so much better.” 

“The news came to me through Mr. Mellodew,” said Myra. 
“ It was written on a five-pound note. Some one gave Mr. Mel- 
lodew a note, marked with rusty-looking lines and spots. It ex- 
cited his curiosity, and he took it to Doctor Brice for examina- 
tion. They read the message from Jasper Fitzroy, and brought 
the note to me.” 

The ground seemed to open at Wrigley’s feet. Had he himself, 
only twenty-four hours before, had that message in his hands and 
absolutely passed it over to Myra? He rushed into the conserva- 
tory to relieve his mind by cursing himself furiously. Then he 
flew back to Miss Barth. 

“My cousin,” he cried, “ this is wonderful, delightful, miracu- 
lous ! Where did you say Mr. Fitzroy was?” 

But his brief and profane absence had given Miss Barth time 
to recover her ordinary reticence and her distrust of James Wrig- 
ley. She replied : 

“ We shall know when my messenger returns. I prefer now 
to say no more about it.” 

There was no more desperate or unhappy man around all 
London that day than J. Wrigley. He felt that all that he had 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


246 

so long and wickedly striven for was surely slipping from his 
grasp. 

To what end had he fought the young knight Rupert and hin- 
dered in the most dangerous way his marriage, if now Myra 
Barth’s lover, so long lost, was to return as from the dead ? 

Evidently Myra would marry him. 

The huge estates of Barth and Fitzroy might slip from his 
eager grasp forever. 

Oh, if Myra would only die ! If she lived longer, all his plans 
were sure to come to ruin. 

If Jasper Fitzroy could come back from the depths of the sea, 
it was far more likely that Sir Rupert might at any moment re- 
appear, with strangely acquired proofs of his own identity. 

As he wandered, striving to plan a way out of his anxieties, he 
met Ailsa Wallace coming from one of the cottages beyond the 
Barth woods. 

Ailsa usually passed Wrigley with but a grim recognition, but 
to-day she paused, smiling and fluent. 

“ Ha’e ye heard the guid news, Maister Wrigley? We ’ll see 
braw days at Barth yet I That bonny young moil as loved my 
young leddy so weel is heard fra. Aye, he ’ll come back, and I 
ha’e na doobt he’ll speed well wi’ his wooin’, and we’ll see a 
gran’ weddin at Barth ! Will ye no’ be glad to find yer young 
kinswoman mated wi’ a gallant gentleman? A bride will look 
brawly at Barth, and wha can tell, in a few years’ time we may 
ha’e bonnie callants and lassies o’ Barth an Fitzroy bluid run- 
nin’ roun’ here, and heritors o’ a goodly estate !” 

Ailsa, keen to know what words would cut her enemy deepest, 
valiantly gave him blow after blow before he could rise to defend 
himself. 

Wrigley, however, had a weapon which Ailsa did not suspect, 
and it leaped from the scabbard. 

“Ailsa, hark a moment. You are an old friend, and a tried 
friend, to Miss Barth. I will speak a word to you for her good. 
You remember the night little Rupert Barth disappeared? 
Where was Miss Barth that night ?” 

‘ ‘"Whaur suid she be but in her bed ?” retorted Ailsa, staggered 
as by a tremendous blow, but keeping a firm face and voice. 

“ She was at the Willesden Reservoir,” said Wrigley. 

“Ha’e ye gaun daft, tellin’ sic a tale as that?” screamed Ailsa, 


A WILL AND TESTAMENT. 


247 


“ She went there with the little child in her arms. She re- 
turned without it,” said Wrigley, relentlessly. 

Ailsa fought hard to appear unmoved, but Wrigley read in her 
eyes that this was not the first time that this thought had been 
presented to her — and that she trembled at it. 

“ Oh, oh !” cried Ailsa. “To think ye s’uld say sic a word o’ 
yer ain cousin — a leddy born and bred — an unprotected lassie — 
and you her ain bluid relation ! Who will believe sic an auld 
wife’s tale as yon ?” 

This was the first time that Ailsa had ever dwelt on the Wrig- 
ley relationship ; she generally ignored it. 

“ True,” said Wrigley, “ she is my relation, and that has kept 
me silent.” 

“ There ’s naething to be silent for I” cried Ailsa, recovering. 
“ There ’s naebody can prove ain word against her !” 

“ The courts, Ailsa, would not look on her as kindly as we 
do,” said Wrigley. “ I have kept all this to myself, being, as you 
say, a blood relation. It has seemed to me that what was done 
could not be undone, and that it was idle to create a scandal. 
The crime could lie hidden and die with her. But, as a man of 
honor, Ailsa, I cannot keep silent if Miss Barth thinks of mar- 
riage. If Mr. Fitzroy comes home I cannot allow him to marry 
a woman who has hastily committed such an act which might any 
day be discovered, and she brought to answer for it. You and I 
know it. How many more may know itf One, for certain, that 
I could name. With that crime resting on her, Ailsa, Miss Barth 
has no right to be a wife or a mother — and, hark you, I shall not 
permit it! Do you turn her mind from it and don’t force me 
to speak out what I know !” 

Wrigley nodded and moved away, leaving Ailsa petrified for 
the instant ; but before he was out of sight she called him back. 

“ Hark ye, Maister Wrigley. Do ye think a woman went frae 
this hoose on that awfu’ nicht wi’ a bairn in her arms and re- 
turned wi’out it? You puir lambie was far too innocent to see 
what harm the lad bairn could do her fortunes. But / saw it. / 
would not ha’e my ain guil disinherited. Did ye hear of a woman 
gaun to yon Reservoir ? That was Ailsa Wallace ; so do what ye 
wull, I ’ll stick to that word to my deein’ day i’ the face o’ all the 
coorts i’ the country. Ailsa Wallace it was ! Ailsa— do ye hear, 
mon?— Ailsa Wallace, I tell ye !” 


24B 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


Wrigley stared at the old "woman dumbly. He did not believe 
her. But how could he disprove her? And, after all, the one 
thing which he dared not do was to make any accusation whatso- 
ever. He had merely been threatening. 

“ There is no need to say more, Ailsa,” he said. “I just 
wished you to feel that there were impediments to your lady’s 
marriage, and of marriage you must not think. You can hinder 
her. You can dissuade her. You can speak to Mr. Fitzroy when 
he comes and impress upon him that she will not and cannot 
marry. For as surely as a marriage is arranged, I shall feel it my 
duty to have this matter investigated.” 

Again he walked away, and Ailsa did not call him back. She 
sat under a tree and swayed herself back and forward, as High- 
land women do, crooning for a death. In a low, inarticulate sing- 
song she uttered her complaint : 

“Is the enemy pursuin’ ye, my lassie? Wae ’s me, but he 
shanna lay a han’ on ye ! Ailsa is old enough to die ! Ailsa 
will die for you, lambie.” 

And so on and on, until she comforted herself by giving ex- 
pression to her grief. 

But when she finally returned to the house, she had made up 
her mind that Miss Barth had better remain unmarried, and was 
planning how she should uphold and strengthen that resolution 
in her mind, and also how she could prevent Jasper Fitzroy, if he 
ever returned, from pressing her to break that safe resolution. 

From that day she began to throw all the weight of her influ- 
ence against Myra’s marrying. 

“True, dearie,” she would say to Miss Barth, “all these years 
will ha’ changed him — and ye wouldna be happy on ye married. 
It ’s aye better to stay single than to marry for disappointment. 
It is o’er late for ye to marry, and' we couldna tell what would 
come o’ it. No guid, I ’ll be boun’. You ’ll do weel to keep till 
yer resolution, and just be Miss Barth o’ Barth till the end o’ the 
chapter.” 

The word that Mr. Fitzroy was heard from, and was in Turk- 
ish captivity, and that there would be no merry-makings at 
Barth House while his fate remained in uncertainty, spread 
through the neighborhood, and, among other ears, it reached 
those of young Pettigrew. 

This youth felt that the absent Jasper was responsible for 


A WILL AND TESTAMENT. 


249 


breaking up Miss Mi’s birthday festivity, and he believed this loss 
of her party would be a horrible grief to that adored young 
lady. He now should do his part to console her. And what 
could he do better than go to his hiding-place and bring out 
the beautiful leather case which he had found at his mother’s 
cottage and bestow it upon his young mistress ? 

Intent on this generous act, young Pettigrew made a bouquet, 
which to him seemed very elegant, though possibly a little large 
and brilliant for a lady’s taste. He secured from the house- 
keeper a sheet of white paper, folded the case therein and waited 
until he saw Miss Mi walking alone in the garden. 

“ Miss,” said young Pettigrew, blushing and bowing, “ it ’s a 
dreadful go — that there ’s to be no ball for you. I wish that for- 
rin man was dead and done with ! And, miss — I had a little pres- 
ent, if you ’d be pleased to take it as a sign of my forever-and- 
everlastin’-amen gratitude.” 

Mi, checking a smile, received the votive offering of her adorer, 
and told him the bouquet was very splendid and did him credit. 
Perceiving that he lingered to see what effect the packet would 
have on her, she unfolded it, and looked as astounded as Petti- 
grew could desire at the costly case, somewhat faded by time, with 
its gold clasp and chain. Her astonishment deepened as, turning 
it over, she saw the well-known monogram, “ L. B.” 

“ Pettigrew,” she demanded, “ where did you get this?” 

“ Please, miss, I found it.” 

“ Carefully, Pettigrew. This monogram shows that the case 
formerly belonged to Lady Bidebank.” 

“Why, do it, miss?” said Pettigrew, surprised. “Well, I 
never found it near her house. True, miss. Do, please, believe 
me. Do you think I would give you a stolen thing? No, upon 
my soul and word and honor, I found it !” 

“Where, Pettigrew?” 

“ Well, if I must, I found it in the wall of my mother’s cottage 
— but it’s none of hers.” 

“ Well, thank you for the present,” said Mi. “ I believe you 
have done as well as you knew how, and you show a kind heart.” 

She withdrew to a seat and opened the case. Her quick eyes 
detected at once the sewed pocket, and she ripped it open. The 
envelope, which Mrs. Tony had resealed, had sprung apart. It 
was directed to Rupert. But where was Rupert? Mi dropped 


250 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


a tear on the superscription and, hardly conscious of what she 
did, drew out the inclosure. 

This was not Lady Bidebank’s fine script, but Mr. Mellodew’s 
clear, plain and old-fashioned hand : 

“ The Last Will and Testament of Laura, Lady Bidebank, relict of the 
late Lord Henry Bidehank, of Bidebank Hall, and West Hants, Middlesex, 
Eng.,” and so forth and so on. “I do give and bequeath all my personal 
property and all moneys whereof I shall die possessed, save the legacies 
hereinafter to be named, to Rupert Barth, my adopted son, as a token of the 
tender love I have felt for him.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

MARIANA IN THE MOATED GRANGE. 

When the contessa left her daughter, on plea of being taken to 
see Rupert, Natolie, in agonies of dismal expectation, stood in 
the room which they had first entered. Minute after minute 
passed, and still her mother did not return. Natolie felt sure 
that Rupert was dying, and that they dared not come and tell her. 
She ran into the hall and listened. She called: “Mother! 
Mother!” She lifted the candle and searched fruitlessly for a 
bell-rope. Then she went up the bare staircase, but found at the 
top a locked door. She returned to her place, and holding the 
candle high over her head, she examined the room. A carpet, a 
large reclining-chair and a small table formed the whole furniture. 
The windows had wire lattices and heavy outside shutters. She 
placed the candle on the table and stood looking at it in a sort of 
fascination, watching the tallow guttering down one side and 
dripping over the green-spotted and battered candlestick. She 
heard no sound, but suddenly an arin reached out across the 
half-open door and drew it shut. 

Natolie shrieked : 

“ Stop ! Stop ! Mother ! Rupert ! Where are you? Stop ! 
Help !” 

She flew to the door. It was shut fast. She beat on it and 
called loudly, but the owner of that arm which had shut her in 
never returned nor replied. 

For a little time Natolie was overpowered with terror. Then her 


MARIANA IN THE MOATED GRANGE. 


251 


native strength returned to her. Evidently this was not Bidebank 
Hall, neither were these Bidebank servants which treated her 
thus. Then, if they had been deceived in regard to their destina- 
tion, it was likely that the whole story which brought them forth 
was a fabrication. Then Rupert was unharmed. That thought 
was a consolation. But who had parted her thus from her 
mother ? In a little time it would be morning, and the hour for 
meeting Rupert would come, and, as yesterday the rector had 
failed him, now the bride would be wanting. Over this thought 
dominated anxiety for the contessa. If her mother’s experiences 
were like her own, poor Natolie feared for her life. 

The candle flickered and died away. Dawn began to look in 
through a narrow ventilator above the door, and through two 
square holes in the oak shutters. A sliding panel in the wall 
drew her attention, and examining it, she found it communi- 
cated with what might have been a pantry, while the larger room 
was a dining-room. 

Placing her face near one of the square openings in the shut- 
ters, our pale captive watched the advancing light. At last she 
could see the outer world. There was a little-travelled drive curv- 
ing up to the front of this house. No sign of life was around; 
not even a bird fluttered near. Dark fir and spruce and cedar- 
trees crowded around the house, shutting out air and sunshine ; 
beyond these dank old trees she saw nothing. Where was the 
world, glad with music, sun and flowers, through which yesterday 
she had gone as a bride ? 

“ Miss !” said a low voice. 

Natolie turned; in the twilight of the room she saw the woman 
who had received them the previous night. She had entered by 
the door leading from the pantry. Natolie sprang to her. 

“ Open the door ! Wicked woman, do you know what you 
are doing, or what is the punishment of those who kidnap and 
imprison people? You told me that Mr. Rupert Barth was here, 
seriously hurt ; and it was a wicked lie, told to bring me here !” 

The woman stood mute and motionless. 

“ Where is my mother ?” demanded Natolie. “ Open the door, 
and let me go to her. Where is she?” 

“ In this house, above stairs.” 

And what has happened to her? Let me go to her ! She 
will be distracted at being separated from me !” 


252 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“I hope not,” said the woman. “ I cannot take you to her, 
not being my own mistress, and merely doing as I am bid, and 
not knowing the rights of the case, nor wishing to know them. 
But, if you please, you had far better write your mother a letter; 
that will calm her mind; and I will carry it to her at once. You 
can tell her that you are quite well, and are not likely to be hurt, 
and that she will hear from you again.” 

Saying this, the woman pulled open the slide of the closet and 
took from the shelf within a lamp and writing materials, which 
she placed on the table. To all Natolie’s inquiries and reproaches 
she made no answer except to urge her to write the letter; and 
at this task the girl finally despairingly set herself. 

When the letter was finished and sealed the woman again 
opened the slide and brought in a tray with food upon it, which 
she placed upon the little table before Natolie. When she turned 
to leave the room Natolie kept at her side, and entered the closet 
with her. Her keeper then returned to the outer room, and 
Natolie did the same. 

This advancing and retreating was kept up for some minutes 
until suddenly the woman flung a strong arm around Natolie, 
and slipping off her own great gingham apron, tied it over the 
young lady’s arms, and pressed her down in the large chair. 

Before Natolie could struggle to her feet the woman had sprung 
into the closet, closing the door. By the time Natolie worked her 
arms free and opened the door, she found the door leading out 
of the closet shut fast and her keeper gone. 

All day Natolie was alone with no occupation but looking out 
of the small aperture in her window-shutter, before which passed 
no living thing save now and then a moth or a dragon-fly. She 
found that the closet had wooden shutters inside, well padlocked. 
She concluded from what glimpses she got of the world outside 
that none of these windows were far from the ground. Natolie 
had no jewelry with which to endeavor to bribe her captor, as did 
her mother. She found in her pocket a pen-knife, and this she 
thought it safe to hide, unless it should be taken from her. In 
attempting to secrete it under the carpet she found that the floor- 
covering was not nailed down, but merely spread over the floor. 

Meanwhile Mrs. Pettigrew had committed to Tony the letter 
written by Natolie, and Tony had posted off with it to the city 
to James Wrigley — the sound of Tony’s horses’ feet being the 


MARIANA IN THE MOATED GRANGE. 


253 


only sound which that day broke the stillness of this “ Moated 
Grange.” 

At evening Mrs. Tony returned, and put her head in at the 
sliding panel. 

“I daren’t come in where you are,” she asserted; “you’re 
too fierce. I ’ve brought a blanket, and I hope you ’ll sleep com- 
fortable in your big chair. Here ’s some supper.” 

“ Where is my mother ?” demanded Natolie. 

“ Oh, she ’s very comfortable ; and she ’s very much obliged to 
you for that letter ; she ’ll answer it to-morrow.” 

“ And why am I here?” asked Natolie. 

“ It was Mr. Barth,” said Mrs. Pettigrew; “he meant to break 
up the marriage by not having the minister at the church, and 
when that did not do he had you brought here. A very rich man 
in the city offered him seventy thousand pounds with his daugh- 
ter ; and you know he does not like being poor ; he was brought 
up rich.” 

“ That is all false !” said Natolie, firmly. 

Mrs. Pettigrew laughed a little and hesitated. 

“ I knew you would not believe that story. I told it just to try 
you. I ’ll tell you now the blessed truth. Mr. Barth was en- 
gaged to a young lady, and treated her very badly, and wanted 
to leave her to marry you ; and her father it was that had you 
carried here to make Mr. Barth keep his promise to the other 
lady. And, now, I ’ll just tell you what, miss. This gentleman 
is afraid to have you stay in this country, for fear it will make 
trouble between Mr. Barth and his wife. They ’re to be mar- 
ried to-morrow, and I ’ll show you the marriage in the paper. 
The gentleman will give you and your mother money to go to 
France or Italy or America, if you ’ll take an oath on your bended 
knees never more to see Mr. Barth or communicate with him in 
any way. If you ’ll do that, you ’ll be put in a carriage with your 
mother and taken to a port and have your luggage and your 
money. You ’d far better do it. What ’s a man, anyways— a 
mere deceiver and a plague, in my view. That ’s all I ever 
found my man. Miss, you ’d better agree to that.” 

“ I ’ll die first,” said Natolie, indignantly. 

“As you like, miss; but maybe your poor mother might die, 
too, being cut off from you as she is. Why, you would be main 
contented, you and her, living together in a furrin land.” 


254 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ Well, I must see my mother, first, and take her advice before 
I make such a vow as that. Bring me to her.” 

Mrs. Pettigrew shook her head, removed her elbows from the ; 
shelf where she had leaned, and silently withdrew, leaving the ’ 
supper and the lamp. 

Natolie, not having happened to suspect her food, ate what was i! 
given her, and, overcome by the exhaustion of a sleepless day and 
night, wrapped herself in the blanket and reclined in her chair. 

The anxieties which she suffered for her mother were less keen 
than her mother’s for her ; her range of view of the world’s evil 
was more limited, and her youthful hopefulness and daring were 
greater. 

As she queried who could be her captor, and for what motive, 
she fell into a deep sleep. 

She awoke at a heavy stumble in the hall, and as the slide 
above the door was open, she heard voices : 

“ A great guard you are for prisoners, Tony Pettigrew ! Drunk 
as a fool !” 

“ And do you expect a man to sit up all night, and tear down 
to Lun’on, and rave around there all day, and never get a drop 
of anything to keep his courage up?” 

“ It’s my belief,” returned the woman’s voice, “that we need 
a deal to keep our courage up ; we ’re in pretty risky business, 
Tony, and we ’re not likely to make our fortunes at it, neither. 

I don’t hold as all the money Doctor Wrigley owns to bless his- 
self with is enough to pay us, and I ’ll be bound he has not given 
you a single fi’-p’un’ note this day.” 

By this time the woman seemed to have dragged the stumbling 
feet of the man through the hall, and Natolie heard the closing 
of a door. 

She sat up, wide awake, and applied her mind to what she had j 
heard. Tony Pettigrew / That name she would impress on her 
memory. Wrigley! What name was that? Yes, she remem- 
bered. Mi, her friend of the happy days of Bidebank Lodge, was 
a Wrigley, and Mi’s father — she recalled him. She had always 
wondered that Mi had such a father. But Mi and Rupert had 
been friends, and could it be that this story she had heard was 
true, and that she had been seized and locked up to force Rupert 
to keep a promise of marriage to Mi ? 

Natolie was not forgetful. She had loved gentle Mi. Oh, if 




I 


MARIANA IN THE MOATED GRANGE. 255 

she could only see her mother, and tell her all she had heard, and 
take her advice ! Perhaps it would be well to make any vow what- 
ever for the sake of getting back to her mother. 

If Mrs. Pettigrew had renewed her arguments to Natolie next 
day she might have soon solved Wrigley’s problem, and mother 
and daughter might have agreed to go to France. Mrs. Petti- 
grew acted according to her lights, and concluded to bring Nat- 
olie to terms by darkness, silence and no news of her mother. 
All day Natolie remained alone. She drew back the slide once 
and found a roll and a glass of water, and later in the day she 
found that she could open the door into the closet, and that a 
towel and toilet apparatus of humble style had been set there. 
She fell asleep early in the evening, and was aroused by the 
shuffling of feet on the stairs. 

There was a murmur of voices, too, and these words disentan- 
gled themselves from the rest : 

“ I hope it does not prove murder, Tony.” 

And then a fumbling of the outer door lock, and the door 
seemed to swing open ; and again the words : 

“Well, mebbe we’ll swing for it; and it’s all your fault. 
Curse the day I saw your ugly face !” 

“ Hold your everlasting tongue 1” said the man’s voice. 

Natolie ran to the window and pressed her face to the square 
opening of the shutter. Oh, if the wire blind had not hindered 
her from breaking the glass and sending a voice through that 
aperture to the night ! Then a lantern was set outside the door, 
and Natolie saw a cab and a pair of horses and dim outlines of a 
man and a woman lifting a burden into the cab. Her blood froze 
in her veins. What was this ? Then the lantern was lifted up 
and held near that figure, and for one moment the face of the 
Contessa Idria was revealed to her watching daughter. 

Natolie gave a great cry, which entered no human ear. 

The look assured her that her mother was not dead, but help- 
less and being conveyed away. 

Oh, where, and for what? 

Natolie flung herself on her knees by her chair. Her mother 
was being carried away ; they were parted — they who had never 
before been separated for a day. 

She must rescue her mother. 

If she were free she could find her way to London. Then she 


256 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


would go to the house where Rupert had been a clerk and de- 
mand news of him. She would go to Miss Barth. There was 
one rich enough, strong and true enough to help her. Miss 
Barth would tell her the truth about Rupert, and Mi would help 
her to find her mother. All night she cogitated plan after plan 
for securing freedom. 

Now that the carriage had driven away with her mother and 
the man whose voice she had heard in the hall, Natolie believed 
herself alone in the house with the woman, and she formed des- 
perate plans for conquering her jailer. Could she match her 
strength with this brawny woman, throw her down, strangle her, 
snatch her keys and away ? Could she persuade her to remain 
in her room that night, hoping that she would be overcome with 
sleep, and that then she could escape ? 

But Mrs. Pettigrew was a shrewd jailer. She kept her safe 
distance from Natolie, and she refused all promised bribes, and 
also laughed at remaining in the room with the young lady. 

“ We ’re best apart, miss,” she said. “ You ’re none so fond 
of me, and I ’ve to wait up until my man comes back — not that 
I ’m anyways fond o’ seeing him.” 

“At least give me a light,” said Natolie. “ I will not stay in 
the dark.” 

Mrs. Pettigrew laughed again, and when she left Miss Idria’s 
supper she left also a lamp. 

Alone for the night, Natolie first ate all the supper which had 
been served to her. Then she brought her pitcher of water from 
the closet. Her face was pale with the desperate resolve she had 
made to risk her life for freedom. Now that her mother was out 
of this terrible home, Natolie, too, must fly. 

She wrenched off the shelf in the closet, and opening her pen- 
knife laboriously whittled and chipped it small. Then she cut 
open the old cushions of the chair, and found in them straw and 
cotton. She carefully lifted the carpet from the floor and ripped 
it into three parts. Then she took the straw, the cotton, the 
whittled wood and piled them on her little table, which she had 
carried into the closet and set close to the wooden shutter. Mrs. 
Pettigrew had brought her a knife to cut the meat at supper, and 
thrusting this through the wire-netting of her windows she broke 
the panes before each of the square holes in the oak blinds. 
Then, with trembling hands, she poured the oil from her lamp 


MARIANA IN THE MOATED GRANGE. 


257 


upon the closet shutters, the straw, the table, the whittled wood — 
and finally she laid down upon it the burning wick, and leaving 
the closet, she closed the door tight, and pressed part of the car- 
pet against the crack to keep the smoke out of her own room 
as long as possible. She then put her face near the broken win- 
dow to breathe the outside air, and stood intent on what she had 
done. 

All was silent out of doors. Not a leaf stirred, nor a cricket 
chirped ; but, after a while, she began to hear the sound of crack- 
ing wood, the sharp snap of flames in the closet. A little smoke 
began to steal into the room where she was. The house was old, 
and the wood, dried for many a decade, furnished good fuel. The 
cracking and snapping grew louder; she wondered her keeper 
did not hear it; she heardjthe glass breaking, and then the flame 
roared as the air reached it. It was over half an hour before 
there was a prodigious crash. What she wished had happened 
—the shutters had fallen from their hinges. Now there was a 
good deal of smoke in her own room. She ran, and cautiously 
drew back* the slide in the closet; this opened opposite the win- 
dow ; the window had burned from its place, the flames had run 
up to the ceiling and fastened on the beams; their ruddy light 
flared over the trees outside ; there was between her and the out- 
side world but that blazing closet ; if she could dash through 
that, she would be free ! She wrapped about herself one breadth 
of the carpet, saturated another portion with the water from her 
pitcher, and, boldly opening the door, flung the carpet upon 
the floor sprinkled with blazing wood. The third portion of carpet 
was seized ; she dashed, holding it before her, to the window. 
The flames surged over and around her, the smoke rolled back 
into the room which she had forsaken. 

She had planned every movement ; she held in her teeth the 
edges of the carpet which covered her head. The large portion 
which she carried she cast upon the charred and flaming sill, 
and then leaped over it, through the burning sash. 

The window gave upon a slope of earth, ver^ureless, thanks to 
the crowding of the spruce-trees. Encumbered with the carpet in 
which she had swathed herself, Natolie fell headlong and rolled 
down the slope. 

Starting to her feet, she tore off her wrapping and looked 
back at the house. The air had fanned the flames, and they 


2 5 8 


A SLEEP-WALKED. 


were devouring the room where she had been imprisoned ; they 
had mounted through the oaken ceiling of the closet to the room 
above, and soon the whole building would be wrapped in fire. 

No one seemed to recognize what was going on ; all was silent, 
save for the snap and crash of burning wood. One minute Nat- 
olie wondered if she must return and seek to warn the woman 
who had been her jailer; but she remembered that, for her, life, 
liberty and honor were at stake, and also her mother’s life. She 
must fly. Lit by the blaze of the house, she sped along through 
the thick grove in which the building stood ; left it only to reach a 
high and insurmountable wall. But the wall must end some- 
where ; there must be gate, break or egress. The flames were 
now hidden from her by the 'trees, but she caught their lurid 
reflection against the sky. She ran breathlessly along the wall ; 
brambles and rubbish tore her clothing, stones bruised her, but 
she fled on. She came to a broad opening — it was a roadway. 
The fire showed where the house stood ; she turned her back upon 
it and rushed down where the wheel-ruts pointed to some outer 
road. 

Making a sudden turn, she heard a crash of horses’ feet, and saw 
a dark body rushing toward her. She leaped into the shadow 
of the woods to hide, running a different way. But her slender, 
fleeing figure, as she came down the turn, had been well revealed 
by the fire behind; the driver, Tony Pettigrew, had seen her. He 
leaped from his box, and, striking with methodical accuracy a 
perpendicular which should bisect her line of retreat, he suddenly 
stopped her way as if he had risen from the earth. 

“ No, you don’t, my lady !” cried Tony, and he clasped her in 
his arms. 

Natolie gave a cry and fainted. 


RUPERT HAS LOST ALL. 


259 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

RUPERT HAS LOST ALL. 

No three persons could have seemed nearer together than did 
Rupert, Natolie and the contessa on that fair morning of the 2nd 
of May, when they repaired for the marriage to the church of 
St. Cleopas. 

No three seemed more widely separated than did these three 
twenty-four hours later, when they were driven asunder by the 
tornado of a bad man’s passion. 

Unable to locate their own position, filled with mutual distrust, 
out of each other’s reach and hearing, what were they to do ? 

And what was Rupert’s experience in this dismal period, which 
sent the contessa to a hospital, and in the darkness of night, with 
the flames of her late prison rising behind her, threw Natolie 
into the power of Tony Pettigrew ! 

When James Wrigley had seen the contessa and her daughter 
carried off by Tony, he himself went to a little tavern near the 
corner of Hare Street and took a short sleep. By six o’clock he 
was at the door of Rupert’s lodging, and charged the maid-of-all- 
work with a letter, which she was to give the young gentleman 
when he was ready to go out. 

Wrigley had pondered long over the question whether or not 
Rupert were likely to have seen the handwriting of the contessa. 
He concluded that he had not, as since he had been courting 
Natolie they had lived so near together, and had met so often, 
that whatever communications the contessa had had to make she 
could have conveyed by word of mouth. 

Wrigley had a dangerous accomplishment, common, perhaps, 
to tricky natures. He could imitate any style of script. 

He had written a letter in a fine, pointed foreign hand, which he 
concluded must bear a general likeness to the contessa's. It ran 
thus : 

“ My Dear Rupert : Providence seems to design the delay of your mar- 
riage with my daughter. No sooner had you left us than I received a 
dispatch from Italy. My brother-in-law has lost his child, and he is now 
ready to restore to Natolie her property. He demands to see us at once. 
We fly to Dover by the midnight train. I cannot say how long we shall 
stay. I will write you again. C. Idria.” 


260 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


Leaving this letter to greet the young bridegroom coming out 
of his chamber, Wrigley repaired to the baker’s shop and asked 
to see the baker and his wife, with whom the contessa had lodged. 

“ I come to you,” he said, “ on private business, from the Con- 
tessa Idria, known by you usually as Mrs. Montgomery.” 

“Aye — how is that beautiful young man?” asked the baker’s 
wife. 

“Perhaps you remember I called here yesterday ?” 

“ I remember,” said the squire of loaves. 

“ I come as the lady’s friend, to see if you were people to whom 
she could trust a secret. I told her that she could trust you fully.” 

“ Indeed she may,” cried the dame. 

“Now, then, this is the business: The lady discovered yester- 
day that that young man’s intentions toward her daughter were 
not upright, and he would soon desert her. It is hard to persuade 
a young girl that her lover is untrue. The mother, feeling that 
at all risks she must save her daughter, arranged that plan for 
their going off to get the girl away and convince her of the 
truth. She does not wish the lover to be able to pursue them. 
He will come here this morning, intent on carrying out his 
scheme. You are to merely tell him that the ladies were called 
off to see some of their friends, and that you do not know 
where they are or when they will return. This is the favor that 
the lady begs of you, and which she will repay you liberally.” 

“ Oh, me ! I never heard the like !” cried the woman. “ It is 
quite like a story in a book entirely ! Aye — we ’ll say what she 
wishes. And he meant to deceive the dear young lady? The 
villain ! But I always said to every one he was too handsome 
to be good.” 

“And you will be sure and say exactly what is desired, and 
have no discussion which may disturb the contessa' s plans? You 
will be very careful ?” 

“ Aye— we ’ll say nothing but that. We ’ve no time to talk.” 

The promise being thus secured, Wrigley repaired to the chop- 
house which he had favored with his patronage the previous eve- 
ning. There he regaled himself with a chop and a wash, and still 
further with the view of young Rupert, whom he was so happy 
as to behold tearing along to the late lodgings of his love with 
a view to getting some explanation of the miserable letter which 
had destroyed his hopes and his happiness. 


RUPERT HAS LOST ALL. 


261 

Looking from his post of observation, Wrigley saw that Sir 
Rupert interviewed first the small servant and then the baker’s 
wife, and seemed to get little satisfaction from either of them. 

He soon went down Bird-Cage Walk toward Shoreditch, look- 
ing like a man who had had a death-blow. 

Indeed, Rupert was completely stunned by this sudden over- 
turning of his plans and affairs. 

His home ready ! His marriage only hindered by a few min- 
utes of time yesterday ! Surely it was most cruel for the contessa 
to carry her daughter out of the country without giving him any 
warning. She could have waited one day until Natolie was mar- 
ried, and have left her with her husband. At least she might 
have sent for him to Hare Street, that he might accompany them 
to Dover and know their plans. 

The letter was most cold, most cruel. How could Natolie have 
agreed to it? Was her head turned by the prospect of restoration 
to ancestral splendors ? He had always known that the contessa'' s 
brother-in-law had defrauded her of her rights and property. He 
had heard that from a child. Every one who knew of the con - 
tessa's coming to England knew that. 

And, too, he knew that she was proud. He had seen that the 
poverty of her child’s prospects had disturbed her, and that she 
had looked anxiously toward the future. He had felt keenly 
that his own lack of lineage and name had sorely distressed the 
patrician mother. He had not blamed her. It had been a feeling 
with which he sympathized. He was himself full of pride. 

And now — Ah, this mother might decide to remain in Italy ! 
The restored heiress of the Idrias would be surrounded with all 
temptations to forget England and her English lover. Guile and 
force might unite to sever them. How careful the contessa had 
been to hide the name of the city of her destination ! Italy ! A 
large country, surely. 

And now they were on the sea. 

At this hour she, who should have been going toward St. Cleo- 
pas, was hurrying toward France ! 

He was distracted. 

What, return to Hare Street to be questioned? No wedding 
again? Rupert was morbidly sensitive, as we have seen, and he 
would rather have met wild beasts than his landlady and her maid- 
of-all-work. 


262 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


To his desk, then ? He had received this day’s leave in which 
to be married. 

Could he go to our wholesale house and submit to the queries 
and jokes of his fellow-clerks ? 

And if he indefinitely absented himself and lost his situation, 
why, how could he support Natolie, if, please God, she would 
only return as poor and loving and merry as when she went 
away ? 

Torn by these thoughts, Rupert sped along, quite unconscious 
whither, and as unconscious that he was followed afar off by the 
enemy of his whole life. 

On went Rupert, blind with pain, along the Kingsland Road 
to Newington, and after him went Wrigley, too eager to feel 
fatigue. 

Exhausted at last, Rupert sank on a bench in Hackney Downs, 
and Wrigley sat down where he could hide his face under his hat 
well pulled over his eyes, and yet could watch his victim over 
his shoulder. 

Tired as he was himself, Wrigley laughed with cruel glee as he 
saw the exiled heir of Barth shivering and groaning in his misery. 

At last Rupert began to think connectedly. He took out the 
letter that morning received, and he read it. 

She would write again! Where would she direct ? To Hare 
Street? Then he should let his landlady know where to send his 
letters. He had given no directions, as he had no correspondents. 
But where should he go ? Not to the house in Hackney, alone, 
where all his little household goods were gathered, and where 
he and Natolie had been so joyous ! He had paid the quarter’s 
rent and the place was his ; but he could not go there alone. It 
would be easy enough to write to the landlord that he would not 
take possession for a few weeks. Of all things, Rupert desired to 
repress gossip and comment that might harm Natolie and himself 
if, happily, they were married. 

And he would return to his business and say nothing of his 
disappointment. To all questions and surmises he could respond 
in silence. Work would make the heavy hours go by more 
quickly than idleness. To the house he could have his letters sent, 
and if the worst came to the worst, and he found that Natolie 
was never to be his, then he could fly the house and the country 
forever, and die of his chagrin, a stranger in a strange land. 


RUPERT HAS LOST ALL. 


263 


He gave a great groan as he resolved on this, and, slowly rising, 
retraced his steps to Kingsland Road. 

Wrigley, keeping him well in view, discovered that he was look- 
ing for lodgings, and, after a time, that he had found them, and 
then that he sent a cabman to Hare Street for his things. 

Having debated whether to remain and watch Rupert for the 
night, or to go where he could communicate with the Pettigrews. 
Wrigley went to Hare Street, asked where Rupert’s letters were 
to be sent, and then returned home, weary, but not with well- 
doing. 

At Clematis Villa, Wrigley received an envelope inclosing the 
letter written by Natolie to her mother. 

F urnished with a flask of brandy and an appropriate portion of 
water and sugar, Wrigley shut himself in his own room to medi- 
tate on the theme — Rupert. 

Wrigley carefully weighed his early knowledge of the boy and 
of his ancestors. Rupert had always shown much of Elizabeth 
Barth’s sensitiveness. Like her, he largely lived ih his affections. 
Once cut off from this girl, whom evidently he passionately loved, 
he would go desperate ; he would fall ill and die, or he would 
rush beyond seas, luckily out of the way forever, or he might 
even commit suicide, which act, as far as Wrigley was con- 
cerned, was not without its alleviations. The first thing, then, 
would be to assure him of the loss of Natolie. Hardly had our 
Wrigley arrived at this point of decision, and concluded to go to 
bed, when his wife insisted on being admitted. 

“ You are away so much, Mr. Wrigley, goodness knows for 
what, that I cannot get a chance to speak to you about our own 
family or their needs.” 

“ As for that, Mrs. Wrigley, it seems to me that our cousin 
Myra, having the means, is the one to apply to.” 

“The girls,” replied Mrs. Wrigley, “ say it is so miserable 
here at home that they cannot abide it, and to-morrow Elizabeth 
is going to Alnwich, and I ’m afraid, Mr. Wrigley, that Jane has 
made up her mind to a marriage — a secret marriage, a low mar- 
riage, a marriage with a mere clerk.” 

“ One thing is certain,” cried Wrigley, leaping to his feet and 
doing the average stage-father with considerable effect : “ If Jane 
and Bess and Mi make fools of themselves in that fashion, I ’ll 
disinherit them ! If you please, Mrs. Wrigley, take notice and 


264 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


impress it on the minds of your children — they shall be disin- 
herited !” 

“ I suppose,” suggested Mrs. W., “ that that would have more 
effect if they knew disinherited from what ? As things go now, 
it don’t seem they will lose more than a few pounds, and any clerk 
almost could provide for them as well as we do, and they would 
have more liberty.” 

“ Mrs. Wrigley, you amaze me. I see you are aiding and 
abetting your daughters in folly. From what? Why, 1 am 
astounded! Cut off from what? From all the Barth property, 
Mrs. Wrigley. Millions, madam, millions !” 

“ By what I hear from Mi, our cousin talks of entering soci- 
ety again, and very likely she may marry.” 

“ Nonsense !” said Mr. Wrigley. “ And you warn Jane.” And 
then he bade his wife occupy herself and Jane next day in mak- 
ing out that list which, as we have seen, he carried over one 
day later to his cousin — that morning when he learned that 
Jasper Fitzroy had been heard from. # 

Carefully calculating the time required for the imaginary voy- 
age of the contessa to Italy, Wrigley prepared another letter to 
be sent to Rupert. He also set himself to writing a more elabo- 
rate letter from Natolie to Rupert. 

On Thursday morning Wrigley went to London to wait for 
the contessa coming from Ware, and see to it that she was put 
out of the way of harming him in the city. He considered that his 
plans were working far better than he had designed them, 
when the haggard contessa fell unconscious on the platform, and 
he saw her carried off, and heard the doctor’s verdict that she 
would die. After that episode he visited Mr. Mellodew, and 
unluckily paid him the five-pound note marked in Jasper’s blood. 

The next morning that bad news from Fitzroy burst upon 
him like a thunderclap. Returning home, after his interview 
with Ailsa Wallace, he was told that an old man waited for him in 
his study. The old man was Tony Pettigrew in disguise. This 
was Friday morning. 

“ If you please,” 6aid Tony, “ Danfield’s burned down. Cin- 
ders !” 

“ What !” bellowed Wrigley. “ Caught from hot cinders, you 
fool ?” 

“ No, no; it’s gqne to cinders,” said Tony. 


RUPERT HAS LOST ALL. 


265 


“ Good heavens ! And — where ’s the girl ?” 

“She’s out. I caught her just getting away; and it’s my 
belief that she lit the old tinder-box. Anyway, it ’s all gone to 
dust and ashes ; that is — ashes.” 

“Well, any more bad news?” demanded Wrigley, cyn- 
ically. 

“Yes,” said the remorseless Tony. “ My woman is getting 
shaky. She ’s afraid we ’re going too far. For me, I see we have 
gone too far, and it’s as easy to wade on as out when one’s at 
such a deep place. Anyway, I expect most any time for her to 
get all the fat in the fire, so you just look out, sir. I ’m not 
’sponsible for Mrs. Pettigrew; she’s beyond me, sir — alius 
was.” 

All the rest of that day Mr. Wrigley was in a frantic state, 
making certain critical arrangements. He also posted a letter ad- 
dressed to Rupert — at his place of business — and purporting to 
be from the contessa. This reached Rupert on Saturday. 

“Dear Rupert: We have arrived at the house of my brother-in-law. I 
send this to England by a friend who goes directly to London, and will 
mailitthere— asldonot wishyou to wait longer. I expect nowthat my child 
will receive her fortune and her proper position. Her uncle will not wish 
her to return to England. All our affairs will be changed— and we cannot 
tell what may be best for us— for Natolie. I know you will admit my right 
to judge for my child. And you will not wish to interfere for her injury. 
She will write. C. Idria.” 

Rupert read this with a horrible sinking of heart. 

“ How careful she has been not to give her address,” he said 
to himself. “This letter points but one way — to the breaking of 
our engagement. I am not fit for Natolie! Why not? I love 
her as well as ever. Will she agree to this cruelty — she? No; 
I am sure she is too true ! And she will write.” 

With this expectation he strove to buoy up his sinking courage. 
All day he kept at his work, making and painfully repairing 
terrible blunders, fevered and excited, longing only to hide him- 
self. What a day it was ? Would it never close ? Must he come 
here again, and watch the humdrum tide of life flowing on in its 
old course, and his life a perfect Marah of bitterness, parted from 
Natolie ! And yet he must come there, for she would write, and 
where else could he get her letter? Or she might return. Mad- 
dened by the restraints put upon her, and at the wrong they asked 
her to perpetrate, she might fly back to England — to him. Ah, 


266 


/ 

A SLEEP-WALKER. 


happy hour ! Then he could marry her, and the little home in 
Hackney would be all that he had pictured it ! 

He drew a breath of relief when office hours ended, and he 
returned to his place on the Kingsland Road. There he did not 
wait for his supper. His paper? No, he wanted nothing but to 
be let alone. To keep his door locked and fight out his miserable 
battle all by himself. All Sabbath he lay alone in his room, 
dreading the coming of the week-day and of work. The little 
maid-servant brought him his tea and toast, and confided to 
her mistress that — 

“ The second pair back looked dreadful, just as if he ’d gone an’ 
killed somebody or somebody ’d gone an’ killed him.” 

That Sunday, James Wrigley was driven quite wild with the 
gossip of his wife and daughter about the news of Fitzroy — their 
wonderings whether he would get home safely and whether Miss 
Barth would marry him ! 

“I know she will,” said Mrs. Wrigley; “and then, as like as 
not, there ’ll be direct heirs, and we 'll get nothing.” 

“We have got a good deal already,” said Miss Jane. “The 
boys are pretty well provided for. My brother will get the living 
all the same, and she will not give up Mi. She ’s provided for, 
and I think the rest of us had better begin to make up our minds 
to what we have and live just as if the Barth estate had ten 
heirs. We ’ll never get it.” 

“ Hold your tongue !” said her amiable sire. 

Jane left the room in a pet. 

“Mrs. Wrigley,” said Sir James, ceasing his restless pacing 
up and down the cramped little parlor, “ I have had a letter from 
a former patient — a rich patient. I may make a change in our 
household. I may receive an inmate — an unfortunate inmate, 
accompanied by a nurse. I have ordered a man to come and 
make some alterations in the top room at the rear and its dress- 
ing-room.” 

“ Dear me, Mr. Wrigley,” said his wife, “ we are cramped and 
bothered enough, I think, at Clematis Villa, what with poor 
servants and so on.” 

“ And this will be several hundred pounds yearly to my income, 
Mrs. Wrigley— needed, though I am next heir of Barth, and 
though I expect to get that fortune just as much as I expect to get 
my breakfast to-morrow morning.” 


RUPERT HAS LOST ALL. 


267 


Day after day of the next week dragged over Rupert, each one 
leaving him more miserable. His distracted appearance, much 
as he strove to hide it and to assume a cheery expression before his 
fellow-clerks, was much commented upon. He had made several 
errors. He had forgotten several important items. The senior 
clerk sharply reproved him. The junior partner inquired, one day, 
if he found himself ill. The senior partner suggested that some- 
thing was wrong, and that young men should beware of wine and 
of play. 

Friday evening he looked at the personals in the Times , with 
a faint thought of Mr. Mellodew. He saw this : 

“ Hare St. and Bird-Cage Walk. — R., tliat wedding can never be. Show 
yourself a man. Emigrate !” 

What did it mean ? Emigrate ! Yes, he would. But no. 
He would die where he sat before he left without hearing from 
Natolie. “ She will write.” Let her write. 

Another week — yes, ten days — and he had a letter in Natolie’s 
lovely handwriting. Alas, this : 

“ Dear Rupert : Will you be very angry if I say good-bye 1 They tell 
me I must, and I see it to be so. I am an Idria— the last of the Idrias— 
and I owe my family much. Oh, forget me ! This is hard now ; but in twenty 
years we shall have learned to smile at it, perhaps. You will find some 
one who will be more to you than I could be ; and I— I must do as my 
friends desire. That surely is duty. Good-by, my friend. Forget 

“ Natolie. 

“ My uncle’s valet is going to London, and will post this there.” 

Gone — the bright, sweet dream ! Ah, to this loss all his strange 
life had led until thus his miseries culminated. Home, name, 
adopted mother, friends, fortune, sweetheart, and now his bride 
snatched from his very arms ! He crushed that dreadful letter in 
his hand, and, without a word of explanation, left the office and its 
work, never to return. 


268 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

JASPER FITZROY. 

While Wrigley was acting the angler with his unhappy fish 
Rupert, playing him until he had so exhausted him that he might 
land him to his mind, he was not neglectful of his other compli- 
cated affairs. 

To return to the Monday morning after Danfield manor had 
been vainly fired by Natolie, and before Rupert had received the 
counterfeit letter of the contessa from Italy — on that morning 
Wrigley and his wife breakfasted alone. 

Miss Jane had not come to breakfast, and her mother felt 
alarmed at her absence ; but her thoughts were turned into 
another channel by Wrigley ’s remark: 

“Your house at Danfield is burned to the ground!” 

Now, Danfield had been Mrs. W.’s only bit of property, inher- 
ited from an aunt, and, though for some years it had not been 
rented, and barely paid its own taxes, she fell to weeping over its 
destruction, and so forgot her daughter. 

“ Where ’s the odds?” grunted Wrigley. “No one could be 
persuaded to live in it, and now you may be able to sell the land. 

J say we ’re well rid of it. And the changes I need in the top story 
will be made to-day, and my patient will arrive to-night.” 

“ Goodness !” said Mrs. Wrigley. “ And what furniture do you 
want up there ? We have none too much to spare.” 

“ What is there will do. Crazy people are not particular about 
room-furnishings. ” 

“ And the patient ’s crazy ?” 

“Yes. She’s crazy.” 

“I shall be afraid to live under the roof with her, then.” 

“You need neither see her nor hear her. All you have to do, 
Mrs. W., is to ask no questions, and see to it that your servants 
mind their own affairs. She will be sent to an asylum after a 
few weeks.” 

Mrs. Wrigley went up to her room, and meditated dolefully. 
Her life had been far from a success. It had all been well enough 
while her husband had been practicing, looking to himself for a 
maintenance. But since he had been crazed about the Barth 
estate, and cleaving to “ my cousin,” all had gone wrong. He 


JASPER FITZROY. 269 

had been so cross and moody that his children never came home, 
if they could avoid it. 

“ O ur Eldest” was a rising attorney. Miss Barth was proud of 
him, but his father had no interest in seeing the future heir of 
Barth making his own sturdy way in the world. 

“Our Second” was assisting the octogenarian rector of the 
family living, and was promised to get the living when the old man 
should die. Like his father, he was absorbed in himself, and 
lived longing for other folks’ shoes — not a thing to make one 
manly or agreeable. 

“ Our Third ” was now a first-lieutenant. He had been brought 
up to center his expectations, not in his parents, but in “ My 
Cousin,” and he wrote to her, but ignored his father and his 
mother. 

Elizabeth had just written that she should stay for a year at 
Alnwick, maybe longer ; it was not very pleasant at home. 

The fourth boy, the midshipman, was an extravagant rascal, 
always in debt, because he ex-pected some day to be rich — in 
Barth riches. 

Mrs. Wrigley knew a dozen families who had no heiress cousin 
and no expectation of estates who were happier, more united, 
really more successful than her own. 

The workmen tramped up and down the stairs, and Wrigley had 
gone off, as usual, on business. 

“ Here ’s a note come,” said the chambermaid. 

Mrs. Wrigley opened it listlessly. 

“ Dear Ma : I was married about an hour ago. I expect pa and you will 
be very angry because he is a dry-goods clerk. But he is a good man, and 
we love each other, and I am twenty-live. I am sure, if Mr. Nicols is only 
a dry-goods clerk, he will make me much happier than pa ever tried to do. 
I should be glad if you came to see me. We are in lodgings — 28 Bernard 
Street. Jane.” 

It was not a very pleasant letter nor a dutiful letter. But Jane 
was acting according to her lights. How had she been trained? 
In greed and dissembling and in censoriousness. 

If she had really met with a good root of affection in the arid 
desert of her life, perhaps it was best to gather it and go her 
way; it might make her better by and by. 

Still Mrs. Wrigley was very angry; more so when she found 
that Jane had packed all her possessions and sent them away in 
her boxes from the back gate early that same Monday morning. 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


270 

She had told Mr. Wrigley, and they had grumbled it over, and 
she was awake thinking of it, when a cab stopped at the door 
about one o’clock at night. 

“ Stay in bed, Mrs. Wrigley. I ’ll see to that,” said James W. 

But Mrs. Wrigley did not stay in bed. On the contrary, she 
thrust her head out of the window and saw a man and a woman 
lift some one out of a cab. The some one was carried as a dead 
weight. 

Then Wrigley opened the door, and feet began to ascend the 
stairs. Mrs. Wrigley thrust her head from the bedroom door. 

Her husband came first with a candle, and after him a man 
and a woman carried a body wrapped in a long cloak. 

Seeing the wife of his bosom looking from her room, in light 
array of cap and bed-gown, Mr. Wrigley unceremoniously pushed 
her in, and shut the door. 

When Mrs. Wrigley experienced unusual vexations in her 
course through life, her way was to get a headache, have her 
room darkened, and lie on a lounge for a few days, in a dismal 
state of frowzied hair, dingy wrapper and tea and toast. 

During such intervals her house took care ot itself, and the 
two maids and the much-buttoned boy enjoyed below-stairs extra 
allowances of beer, meat and leisure. 

Into such a Novena, then, had Mistress Wrigley entered, when, 
next day, her child Mi came to see her. 

‘‘Why, mamma!” cries Mi, entering, simple, fresh and sweet 
as a bunch of May’s own violets. “ All alone, and feeling poorly ? 
Let me open a window — the room is close. No wonder your 
head aches. And here are some flowers for you. Can’t I do 
your hair, and get you a fresh cap ?” 

“ What is the use ?” whines the maternal Wrigley. “ I might as 
well give up first as last. Here’s your sister Jane run away and 
got married, and your father taken in a crazy woman and her 
keeper for the top story; not that I want the room, for that 
place up under the tiles in the French roof is enough to make 
a sane person crazy with the heat.” 

“But about Jane, dear me!” suggests Mi. 

“ Well, she ’s married ! A dry-goods clerk ! Lives in lodg- 
ings! In Bernard Street! A scrubby hole!” cries Mrs. W., 
firing off her items of information like pistol-shots. And then 
growing fluent; “And I say it’s all your cousin, Miss Barth’s, 


JASPER FITZROY. 


271 


fault. Why did she not categorically get married long ago, and 
have a family of children, and put that fortune out of our 
minds entirely? Or why did she not take us into the east wing, 
to make one family with her, and have a place in society, and not 
leave us at the mercy of elopements and crazy boarders and dry- 
goods clerks ? She is to blame for all our troubles, and I think 
we would have been a happier family if our cousin and her mill- 
ions had never been heard of!” 

“ I think,” said Mi, quietly, “ that we would have done better 
to look to ourselves, and not be calculating on outliving her, or 
thinking how we should use her money, or how much we should 
get from her. But it seems to me it is our fault, not hers. 
Perhaps this has been as trying to her as to us. Ma, how would 
you feel if your nearest relations seemed all standing around 
you in a circle, ready to snatch at all you had, and looking to 
see you die, when you knew that your funeral would really be the 
very pleasantest parade they could attend?” 

“It all comes of having money unequally distributed.” 

“ And she has done a deal for us, ma. All my brothers are 
provided for.” 

“And they don’t thank their parents for it or regard us in 
any manner whatsoever.” 

“ But, ‘ Our Eldest,’ ma, you cannot say that of him.” 

“Well, as for him, I feel sure that he must be condemning 
our way of thinking and doing all the time, and you are too, 
Mi — don’t deny it !” 

“Don’t you think I had better go and look up Jane?” said 
Mi, ignoring this attack. “I am sure you will feel happier if 
you know she is doing well, and there is no hard feeling between 
you. And there are your fan and the flowers, and the window is 
open, and do make yourself comfortable, and forget the crazy 
woman upstairs. She is nothing to any of us !” 

Oh, Mi, unconscious Mi, she was your dearest friend ! 

Away went Mi to the city — to 28 Bernard Street. 

Two rooms and a closet, in the second floor, were the apart- 
ments. Jane had spent the morning dressing up the roomsHo make 
them as attractive as she could. 

Seeing her sister she became defiant. 

“ I supposed you were quite above coming to such a plain place 
as this to see a clerk’s wife,” she said. 


272 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“I think the place looks very pretty,” said Mi. “Only why 
did you not tell me, so that I could have been your bridemaid and 
have given you a present ?” 

“ I ’m sick to death of calculating about presents from people !” 
cried Jane. “We have been brought up just to be like little 
dogs, watching people to snap at everything that they drop. 
And as for letting one know, I never should have got married if I 
had, for I believe pa’s capable of doing anything to compass his 
own way.” 

And here Jane cried, and Mi cried, and then they kissed each 
other, and Jane grew confidential and explained all her affairs to 
Mi, and Mi became interested and hopeful over her sister’s pros- 
pects, and assured Jane that so long as he was a good man 
and she loved him, she did “not see as being a dry-goods 
clerk had anything to do with it.” 

And then Mi vowed she would be miserable if she might not 
get a bridal present, and various things suitable were mentioned. 
After that Mi took her leave, promising to come often to Bernard 
Street. 

From her sister she went straight to her brother, “ Our Eldest,” 
in Temple Inn, and among the grim law-books and threatening 
files of parchment, the dusty steps, the legal bags, the distracted 
little office boys and the older clerks much more distracted when 
they saw her fair face, she appeared like a blue-bird that had 
lost its way. 

“ Mi, what in the world !” cried “ Our Eldest.” 

“Why, Jane ’s run away and got married to a clerk.” 

“Well, I don’t wonder. What other news?” cried “Our 
Eldest.” 

“ None, only father ’s taken a crazy woman to board, and 
Jasper Fitzroy is heard from, and he is likely to come home, and 
every one thinks our cousin will marry him.” 

“ I wish she would. Then we would not be expecting the Barth 
fortunes. For me, I am uncomfortable every time I ask her how 
she is or look her in the face, lest I may seem to be calculating 
on her 'death.” 

“ And you will go and see Jane and not cast her off. She says 
she is going to be very happy, and she says that Mr. Nicols is a 
much better man than father, if he is a dry-goods clerk.” And a 
tear of shame rolled over Mi’s pink cheek. 


JASPER FITZROY. 


273 


“ It is not worth while to compare people,” said the brother. 
“To be sure, I shall go and see Jane. I have no doubt she 
will be a happier and better woman. Being at home did not 
seem to cultivate her virtues. And as law chambers are no place 
for you in which to be running around, unprotected, we will go 
over to Oxford Street, and I will buy Jane some forks and spoons, 
and then send you home.” 

Mi had reached home safely, and was walking in the garden, 
meditating over her sister’s prospects, when she was accosted by 
young Pettigrew, who consoled what he supposed to be her sor- 
row by presenting her with a morocco case. 

Mi investigated her present, with what result we have already 
mentioned, and then rushed to her cousin in the library, scream- 
ing :* 

“ I ’ve found it ! I ’ve found Lady Bidebank’s will, and all is 
Rupert’s ! See — see here ! Ah, where can he be ?” 

Miss Barth took the case and closely scrutinized the envelope 
and its inclosure. 

“Yes,” she said, “this is really the will. Now, as soon as 
Mr. Mellodew comes back, we must set him to find Rupert.” 

“ Oh, do not wait,” urged Mi. “ He may be suffering for 
this money. It may take, a long while to find him. Let us begin 
at once.” 

“ That may be best. We must sleep over it,” said Miss Barth, 
and she took the will to put it away securely. 

She sent Mi on some errand, and then, touching the spring of 
a secret closet for papers in one of the panels, she hid the will 
in a place known only to herself. 

The next morning, Wrigley, restless to watch his cousin, made 
an early call. Mi saw him coming over the terrace to the break- 
fast-room window and sprang to meet him as a bearer of good 
tidings. 

“ Pa, we’ve found Lady Bidebank’s will ! / found it ! All is 

Rupert’s ! Lord Bidebank must give it all up ! Now we must 
find him, and that surely will be easy. Oh, ar’n’t you glad? 
Ar’ n’t you glad ?” 

The paternal Wrigley looked incredulously at Miss Barth. 

“What rubbish is this girl talking? Where is this docu- 
ment which she has found? Is it genuine?” 

“ It is genuine, and is put away safely,” said Myra. 


274 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


Her cold tone checked the gushing confidence of Mi, who was 
just about to tell where she had got the will. 

“And, pa, you’ll help us look for Rupert at once?” 

“You might advertise in the Times” said Miss Barth, “if 
you wish. Write out what you want.” 

Mi flew to bring a writing-desk, and Miss Barth wrote : 

“ Rupert B, — The will is found. Come at once. M. B.” 

“It may be a day or two before it gets in,” said Wrigley, 
“ but it will be all right at last.” 

He went to town and inserted that other advertisement : 

“ Hare St. and Bird-Cage Walk.— R. : That wedding can never he. Show 
yourself a man. Emigrate l” 

Mi saw it Friday morning, and wondered what it meant. 

Then Wrigley put them off about Miss Barth’s advertisement. 
It had been lost, and must be resent. Then they were full, and 
could not put it in for several days. 

Miss Barth was absorbed in her anxieties about Jasper Fitzroy — 
but she was able to perceive that James Wrigley was acting the 
enemy. He did not wish to insert the advertisement. Why? She 
was too much in the dark to desire to move, lest she should fall 
into the snares of this subtle foe. She concluded to wait for Mr. 
Mellodew. 

Wrigley asked his daughter where that will was kept. Mi did 
not know. 

But in a few days Wrigiey got some consolation. He went to 
the hospital where the contessa had been carried, and was told 
that she 'had died and had been buried. This simplified mat- 
ters, and he prosecuted with energy his plans for sending Natolie 
to a northern insane asylum, where any strange tales which she 
might tell about interrupted weddings and kidnapings and 
imprisonments might be accepted as the ravings of insanity. 

Still Myra Barth waited for news of Jasper, and none came 
except Mr. Mellodew’s information of safe arrival at Brindisi. She 
grew restless in waiting, and she went to the city herself and 
advertised for Rupert. 

No answer came, and then she racked a good memory to recall 
what Mr. Mellodew had told her of the kind of firm to which he 
had recommended Rupert. Rupert had withheld the name. But 
once set Myra Barth at an object, and she pursued it to the end. 


Jasper fitzroy. 


m 

She spent a whole week in the city, going from one wholesale 
house to another, where there were foreign correspondents, 
until at last she came upon the place where Rupert had been 
employed. He was no longer there. 

They told her that he had married, but since his marriage he 
had seemed very unhappy — had lost health, had been unable to 
attend to business, and had finally disappeared without any 
explanation, and his place had been supplied. No one could 
give even a guess where he might be. And one of the clerks vol- 
unteered the statement that he looked just like a man who was 
going to commit suicide. 

And then Miss Barth told Mi that now they must wait for Mr. 
Mellodew. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Mellodew, armed with ten thousand pounds 
and a large amount of native perseverance, had followed the line 
of proceedings marked out by Miss Barth. The British minister 
at Constantinople took up the affair warmly ; the Sublime Porte 
swore that all the vials of its wrath should be poured on Ibra- 
haim Ben Edin if he had nefariously enslaved a British subject. 
The consul at Smyrna made Mr. Mellodew welcome, and in the 
little steamer chartered by the lawyer, the consul and a Turkish 
officer accompanied Mr. Mellodew to the Gulf of Adalia. 

The next move was to enlist a native official who knew where 
Ibrahaim’s estate lay, and the next was to make a sudden and 
threatening descent upon Ibrahaim and Yusef, the almonds, the 
olives, the pomegranates and the silk-worms. 

Ibrahaim was puffing a peaceful pipe and indulging in a noon- 
day sherbet, when the law thundered at his gates, and Yusef 
heard a demand for an enslaved Englishman. 

“It is true,” said Yusef, “that there is a Son of Light here, an 
Englishman whom we adore and have cherished as our brother and 
our right eye. We could not understand his speech, and the 
man has been deprived of his reason, so that we could not tell 
where to send him. But now illumination had returned to his 
brain, and we are devising plans to enrich him and to send him 
to Constantinople, laden with blessings.” 

The guests were seated on rugs of state and were supplied with 
pipes, sherbet and fruit ; while Ibrahaim expatiated on his love 
for Englishmen and the sorrow of heart he had felt when this 
English bey had been out of his mind and fancied himself enslaved. 


A SLEEPWALKER. 


276 

Yusef, meantime, hastened to get Jasper and Sam. He conveyed 
them to his master’s apartment ; he besought them to enjoy a 
bath ; he clad them in his master’s best clothes ; he anointed their 
heads with oil; he refreshed them with food; he told them that 
his master had sent to Constantinople to get attendants for them, 
and was now about to endow them with riches and send them to 
their own land. Therefore they were to bury in their noble souls 
any little unpleasantness of the past, knowing it to be the will 
of Allah. And they were to go forth blessing and pleased, and not 
charge iniquity to a son of the Prophet. 

These diplomatic maneuvers having consumed two hours, the 
bewildered Jasper and Sam, in much oriental magnificence, were 
ushered into the room of state, where Ibrahaim, trembling and 
perspiring, was entertaining his uninvited guests. 

Yusef, bowing nearly to the ground, conducted the amazed 
Englishmen. 

“ O, Eye of the Morning,” cried Ibrahaim, “my soul is wrung 
to part with the glory of your countenance, while I rejoice in 
restoring you to your magnificent land.” 

“It’s about time, you old blackguard,” growled Sam 
Porter. 

“Fitzroy? This is Fitzroy?” said Mr. Mellodew. 

“Yes, Fitzroy — though just now I hardly know myself,” replied 
Jasper, as the lawyer advanced. 

“And I am Mr. Mellodew. You remember? I used to see 
you at Barth ; and Miss Barth sent me for you post-haste. At last 
we got your message, written on a bank-note — ” 

“In blood!” said Jasper, wringing Mr. Mellodew’s hand. 

“ And have you been forcibly detained ?” 

“ Forcibly ! Working as slaves, naked and half-starved ! Just 
decorated in this style for putting a good face on leaving. Here 
is my fellow-captive, Sam Porter.” 

“Brother of my soul, make no grievance against me,” remon- 
strated Ibrahaim, drawing near, fearing that the English talk 
foreboded evil. 

Jasper, however, in vehement terms described all his history 
from his wreck, charging Ibrahaim with the full weight of his 
wrongs, and addressing the consul and the Turkish officers in the 
speech of Islam. 

“Your charges,” said the chief Turkish official, “shall be 


THE FATAL CROSSING. 


2 77 


admitted. State your demands. We depart with you at once, 
and Ibrahaim shall pay what you demand.” 

“When I came here,” said Jasper, “ that robber took from me 
one watch, worth fifty guineas ; one ring, worth fifty guineas; one 
roll of money of fifty guineas. He promised me, for healing him 
when he was ill, the freedom of two slaves. I have served him for 
ten years. For all this I demand compensation. He has twelve 
slaves. These he must clothe, feed and present to me, with the 
worth of two English pounds in each of their hands. Out of my 
horrible captivity I shall at least have won the freedom of these 
men.” 

“The demand,” said the official, “ is most righteous.” 

Said and done. At sunset there moved down to the seaside to 
take ship the whole procession of Ibrahaim Ben Edin’s slaves, 
whom Jasper was setting free. They entered with him into his 
vessel, while Ibrahaim and Yusef, standing afar off, wailed like 
wolves, and cast dust upon their heads. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE FATAL CROSSING. 

“ If Rupert is married,” said Mi to Miss Barth, “ he is married 
to Natolie Idria. If we find one we find the other. If he is 
married and is unhappy since, it is because they are very poor, or 
the contessa or Natolie may be ill. It seems terrible to know of 
the fortune which would make them happy and not be able to tell 
of it.” 

Miss Barth was pacing up and down the terrace. Anxiety 
concerning Mr. Mellodew’s expedition had become almost unen- 
durable. She paused. 

“ When he was lost before, Mi, Timmy Titlow, that odd genius 
over at the reservoir, brought him back. It may be that there is 
a fate in it. Get your hat, and we will walk over to the basin 
and consult Timmy and set him on the fugitive’s track.” 

Miss Barth and Mi starting off together, Ailsa stood on the 
step watching them, when Wrigley approached her. 

“Any news yet, Ailsa?” 

“ Na, not a word.” 


2 78 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ And I hope there ’s none of that marrying nonsense in your 
mistress’s head, in case Mr. Fitzroy does return. 

“ What marrying 'nonsense?” demanded Ailsa, boldly. “ My 
lady is na o’ the sort to ha’e ony nonsense.” 

“ I think the less she sees of Fitzroy the better. He may urge 
her to keep the old promise, Ailsa, and it won’t do.” 

“ Aye, there ’s too long a time passed, an’ they ’re clean grown 
away fra ilk ither,” said Ailsa. 

“And as a sudden shock of meeting might be injurious to 
my cousin, I shall write Mr. Mellodew, to the bankers in Paris, 
that he is not to come rushing here pell-mell with him, but to 
give due warning after Mr. Fitzroy is in London ; and that, 
Ailsa, will give you opportunity to see him and give him some 
good advice.” 

“ Atweel,” said Ailsa, dryly, “ ye ’re unco’ carefu’ o’ yer cousin, 
Maister Wrigley. But I ’ll see him, and I ’ll gi’e advisement, 
gin ye gi’e me ony chance.” 

Wrigley walked off, leaving Ailsa to feel as if she, who loved 
her lady so well, was preparing to stab her in the dark. 

Miss Barth, ignorant of these plottings against her, and, indeed, 
resolved in her own mind never to marry, because of her part in 
her little brother’s loss, reached the reservoir and found Mr. Tit- 
low just arrived from his daytime sleep. 

“ Timmy,” said Miss Barth, “we are very anxious to get news 
of Rupert, who was with Lady Bidebank. Can you not devise 
some way of finding him ? Once you were fortunate in that 
way, and now Lady Bidebank’s will is found, and he is heir to 
thirty thousand pounds, and his wife, if he gets one, to two 
thousand pounds’ worth of jewels. We heard he was married.” 

“Will ye sit on the boat, ladies?” said Timmy. “I’ve a 
story to tell ye. Ye mind the hut I found the young master in 
that time ? Now it is the middle of June. The ist of May, pass- 
ing that way, I heard an awful noise, and it turned out that there 
was the rector of St. Cleopas, caught in a trap to keep him from 
getting to the church to a marryin’. I let him out, and thinking 
it over that night, it vexed me so to find out who the parties 
might be, that off I went to St. Cleopas next morn to see the 
marriage. There was the rector that time — but no bride and 
groom. We stood about till noon, and none came. So I asked 
the rector’s reverence who the couple might be. Says he : ‘ The 


THE FATAL CROSSING, 


279 


bans was for Rupert Barth and Natolie Idria.* I kept the names, 
you see, as I knew them, for that little miss came here with 
this miss the day when young master fell out of this boat. Well, 
I says, if that young man isn’t dreadful down in luck. Nothing 
seems to go right along of him. He ’pears to have been started 
wrong — and I believe he was, for his grandmother, Dame Chit- 
ton — at least she ’s not his grandmother — she told me a tale as 
would make your hair fairly stand on end to hear it !” 

“ Dame Chitton — an old woman from the almshouse ?” asked 
Miss Barth. 

“Justly,” said Timmy. 

“ And what was the story ?” demanded Mi. “ It may help us 
to find poor Rupert. There ! He is not married, and that is 
why he has been so unhappy; and I said if we found him, we ’d 
find Natolie — and now we cannot find either of them !” 

“ Don’t cry, miss ! Dont !” remonstrated Timmy. “I’ll find 
him. I ’m ready to take my oath I will. I ’ll put my whole 
mind on to it. But as to the story, miss- -it is all past, gone and 
done, and won’t help us find him. Moreover, miss, I ’ve swore 
never to tell it until Sam Porter came back. And he ’s drownded 
— Dame Chitton, she see him lyin’ on the bottom o’ the sea.” 

“But what has Sam Porter to do with it ?” asked Miss Barth, 
looking fixedly at Timmy. 

His mysterious hints disturbed her straightforward nature. Was 
the man mad ? 

“ That’s just what I can’t say — what Sam had to wi’ it,” said 
Timmy, “not ’less he comes back from the dead. But, miss, 
my lady,” added Timmy, with a gush of confidence, “ I ’ll show 
you his house. It ’s down yon, the very first one of all that row 
of workmen’s houses. There ’s where he and his wife and the 
dame and the baby lived.” 

Myra looked and started. That was the very house where her 
father’s big dog, now long dead, had led her one summer day; 
and after that he had ceased his strange behavior. 

She bent her mind to the question of Sam Porter. 

“He worked for me at the house, but he was discharged, as 
Doctor Wrigley said he was a dangerous fellow.” 

“ Then Doctor Wrigley lied /” cried Timmy, bluntly. 

“Hush !” said Miss Barth, sternly. “He is this young lady’s 
father.” 


28 o 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ If he’s the young lady’s father,” said Timmy, meekly, “then 
he was mistaken .” 

“ I have searched for the young gentleman,” said Miss Barth, 
“and I shall search further when my lawyer returns from abroad. 
Meantime, Titlow, I shall consider no reward too great for the 
man that finds him ; and if you can find him, remember I want 
him brought at once to me, at any hour of day or night. I have 
the will , and his fortune is assured.” 

The ladies turned their steps homeward. Mi went slowly behind 
her cousin, wiping away her tears. Not that she was weeping that 
Natolie and Rupert had been almost married. Long ago she had 
assured herself that these two were destined for each other. But 
she loved them both, and in fancy pursued what might be the 
woes of Miss Idria, her mild imagination falling far short of the 
truth. 

“I don’t see,” she said finally, “why my father cannot set 
himself to work to find Rupert. I believe he could do it, and I 
mean to beg him to try.” 

“ Mi,” said Miss Barth, falling back beside her, “ say nothing 
to him about it. Your father never liked Rupert. I could 
always see it. And he knew of him long before he went to Lady 
Bidebank’s. There was some mystery about it. At all events, 
say nothing.” 

“ He couldn’t have disliked him,” said Mi, “for — for he used 
to call him my lover and tell me I ought to marry him ; and he 
did not like that he preferred Natolie or that I called Rupert my 
brother.” 

“ Then, child, I am more in the dark than ever,” said Miss 
Barth. “But still say nothing to him.” 

A week later, Miss Barth received a telegram from Brindisi, 
from Mr. Mellodew, telling her that Jasper Fitzroy was found 
and that a letter would give further news. That letter passed on 
its way one from Mr. Wrigley to Mr. Mellodew. 

Mr. Mellodew’s letter to Miss Barth stated that his mission had 
resulted in the release of several slaves and captives, among others 
of Jasper’s English servant, who would accompany him home. 
There action after long captivity and slavery was telling upon 
Fitzroy, and they should delay in Italy, Switzerland and Paris, 
in order that he might recover mental and physical tone before 
the excitement of meeting English friends. 


THE FATAL CROSSING. 


28l 

Wrigley’s letter greatly exasperated Mr. Mellodew, when he 
received it, two weeks later, in Paris — exasperated him merely 
because it came from Wrigley, for on the surface it seemed a 
sensible enough letter: 

“Mr. Mellodew: My deep interest in my cousin, Miss Barth, prompts 
me to beg you, on arriving in London, not to present yourself nor to 
allow Mr. Fitzroy too suddenly to present himself to Miss Barth. Excite- 
ment and the anxiety of recent events and the revival of old associations 
have left my cousin in a nervous and feverish condition, which causes 
me, her nearest relation, the deepest alarm. My cousin rejoices in being 
the means of restoring an old friend to his country; but in the long time 
which lias elapsed, while she has felt herself free and has settled in a 
single life, she has naturally become averse to any changes, and I see 
that she trembles at the prospect of arousing expectations in the mind of 
any one which she cannot meet. If there are such expectations, they 
should not be pressed. Miss Barth, as you will feel and admit, needs to 
be very carefully dealt with. Respectfully, J. Wrigley.” 

“Bah !” was Mr. Mellodew’s comment on this epistle. 

Fitzroy was wild for news from the homeland, and was looking 
anxiously toward the letter. 

Mr. Mellodew handed it to him, remarking : 

“ There ; don’t take any stock in it. It ’s Wrigley, through and 
through. His deep interest ? Yes, in her property. He’d be 
deeply interested in watching her through a fatal disease ! ‘ Nerv- 
ous and feverish condition !’ I cannot conceive of Miss Barth as 
indulging in either nerves or fever. Sound, sir, sound to the 
core, and calm as one of these marble gods. Her feelings lie 
deep, and don’t come out for Wrigley’s contemplation. ‘ Settled 
in a single life !’ ‘ Averse to change !’ Ah ! I saw her when she 

read your message; I heard her say: i Jasper /’ Ah, the word 
told its own story of a love stronger than death — a love she had 
kept to herself these years !” 

But years of captivity had made Jasper Fitzroy moody and 
somewhat suspicious. The portrait drawn by the lawyer did not 
correspond to his memories of Myra. 

“At all events,” he said, “^the advice seems sound, and when 
I get to London I shall go to some quiet hotel, and not force 
myself on Miss Barth until she is prepared to see me.” 

Jasper and Mr. Mellodew had written from Brindisi to Jasper’s 
former partner at Mauritius, and to an official on that island, 
inquiring into the property which he had left there. 

“ After I have seen England,” said Jasper, “I will return to 


282 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


Mauritius and my storehouse and plantations, and trouble nobody. 
I have been so long away from civilization that I believe I am 
unfit for it.” 

“A look at Miss Barth will dispel all those phantasmagorias,” 
Mr. Mellodew replied, cheerfully. 

Assured now of Jasper’s safety, Myra grew more calm ; but 
still those questions troubled her : How should she meet Jasper ? 
How could she break off the old relationships? How could she 
appear possessor of all his inheritance? And how could she 
manage to restore it to him ? 

Ailsa had bravely changed her grounds on the subject of mar- 
riage. 

“ It wad be onchristian to be lamentin’ that the puir mon’s 
got free after all his waes ; an’ it had been the will o’ Provee- 
dence that he s’uld dee in all thae years he w’uld ha’ deed, an’ 
I canna fly in the face of Proveedence by complainin’ that he 
is alive. But hech, my dearie, it makes a warld o’ trouble for ye, 
the old dead an’ buried questions risin’ up. I canna think it ’s 
richt to tak’ vows,” said the wily Scotchwoman, looking keenly at 
her mistress. “But ance they are taken ye ken they maunbe 
keepit, else a curse comes. Scripter is, it is better not to vow 
than to vow and not pay ; an’ ye ha’ vowed ye wadna marry. 
Sae ye maun keep ye aith, my bonnie guil, or sorrow will come 
frae it.” 

“ I shall keep it,” said Myra. 

“ Aye, an’ I ’m no sae sure but he ’ll fin’ his ain heart changit, 
and wull na desire to keep till the auld stannin’. Being aye a 
mon o’ sense, he will see no doubt that things have changed.” 

And Ailsa had settled it in her mind that she would see Jasper 
before her mistress did, and instruct him how to proceed. She 
even was confederate with her favorite enemy, Wrigley, in this 
matter, having arranged with him that Jasper’s arrival must 
be watched, that she could talk with him before he went to Barth. 

It was all to save her adored foster-child from that terrible 
charge which Wrigley declared he was prepared to make, and 
which Ailsa feared she should not be able to divert satisfactorily 
to herself. 

She was quite ready to sacrifice herself on the altar of her 
idol. Why should she then hesitate to sacrifice Jasper Fitzroy ? 
To Ailsa all the world was little compared to Myra Barth. 


THE FATAL CROSSING. 283 

Since Jane’s marriage Mi had made more frequent visits to her 
mother, who was moody and complaining. 

These visits were generally filled up on Mrs. Wrigley’s part 
with discussions of the inhabitants of the top story. Mi never saw 
either the patient or the nurse, but she heard the most extraordi- 
nary stories about them. Mrs. Wrigley said that she never heard 
word or motion from the patient. She had been up to listen at 
the door, and had heard a steady monologue from the nurse, 
who seemed competent to run on forever like Tennyson’s brook. 
The nurse, Mrs. Wrigley, by using great diligence, had seen. 
She only left the upper rooms early in the morning, before the 
servants arose, or in the evening after they were in bed. One or 
two evenings she had gone out, and Mr. Wrigley had sat up to 
let her in. Whether the person thus jealously kept in the top 
story were old or young, fair or ugly, sick or well, rich or poor, 
Mrs. Wrigley declared she did not know. She did know that 
meals were prepared and carried up to the entry by the servants, 
and were taken in, and the trays set out in the hall again. The 
nurse was a tall, bold, gipsy-looking woman. Mr. Wrigley said 
he should soon have the boarder and her attendant removed, and 
Mrs. Wrigley wished he would do so. 

She succeeded in exciting Mi’s feelings and curiosity intensely 
on the subject, and while Mrs. Wrigley would fret and wonder 
and pry secretly, and yet arrive at no conclusions, her more enter- 
prising daughter, if she undertook to obtain enlightenment, would 
be likely to arrive at discoveries. 

It all happened on account of deviled kidneys. 

These delicacies were the delight of Mrs. Pettigrew’s soul. She 
insisted upon having them furnished her. 

The last day of her stay in the doctor’s attic had come. No 
one but the conspirators knew it, but that night was Natolie to be 
removed secretly by Tony and Mrs. Pettigrew, and carried on 
her way to a Scotch insane-asylum. That day deviled kidneys 
were promised to Mrs. Pettigrew. 

It was the day when Mrs. Wrigley’s two servants had their 
monthly half-holiday, and in their haste they forgot Mrs. Petti- 
grew’s luxury. The cook declared that breakfast should see them 
served hot and hot. Mrs. Pettigrew knew that she would not be 
there at breakfast. 

The servants went their way. Mrs, Pettigrew saw Doctor Wrig- 


284 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


ley also leave the house. The buttoned boy was playing hookey 
in the back street. Mrs. Wrigley would be sure and not leave 
her room. Mrs. Tony concluded to leave her patient, who had 
fallen asleep, and go down-stairs and cook her kidneys for herself. 

Down she went, and was intent on the art of compounding 
egg and bread-crumb and spice and melted butter, when Mi 
entered the house to visit her mother. She peeped into Mrs. 
Wrigley’s room, and saw her sound asleep. She concluded to go 
to the kitchen and find a maid to report her visit when the lady 
awoke. She went in her own swift, silent way, down to the 
basement, and, standing on the lower step, saw the strange nurse, 
no other than young Pettigrew’s mother, bending over a saucepan. 

As she was herself unseen, it flashed into Mi’s mind that now 
she could run up to the top story and have a look at the mysterious 
prisoner. 

She flew to the attic, and there was the key, turned and for- 
gotten, in the outside of the door. 

Mi listened. All was still. 

She gently opened the door and looked in. 

A slender figure, almost as one dead, lay on the couch. Mi 
approached the bed. 

A very little later than this, Mi, pale, panting and breathless, 
rushed into Miss Barth’s room, and flinging herself in an agony 
at her cousin’s feet, she cried : 

“ Oh, help me ! Hide me ! Drive me away ! Do something, 
because I know such a wicked, wicked thing !” 

“ Mi,” said Miss Barth, taking her by the shoulders, “ what 
do you mean ? Speak plainly !” 

“ Oh, I have seen her — the girl at our home — father’s prisoner ! 
Oh, oh, she is Natolie, my own Natolie Idria !” 

“Natolie, insane— at your father’s !” cried Miss Barth. 

“ She is not insane ; I know she is not. She was asleep or in 
a stupor. She did not hear my whisper, and I was afraid and ran 
away. She is not insane. She lay there with her hands folded 
— oh, calm and sweet, and as if she had suffered terribly, and as 
if some one was trying to murder her. He is doing it — my father ! 
Oh, take her away from him ! Save her ! Don’t let him be so 
wicked! Oh, Natolie, Natolie !” 

“ This is a terrible story. Think what you are saying.” 

“ I do, I do ! It is Natolie ! And where is her mother? My 


THE FATAL CROSSING. 


285 


father has no right to her. It does not agree with his story. Oh, 
I see it all — she will be murdered ! You must save her, and save 
my father from crime !” 

Poor Mi went into hysterics — even into convulsions. It was 
hours before she could be restored, and then Miss Barth sat by 
her, promising to at once arrange to rescue Natolie and bring her 
to their home. Doctor Brice had been sent for to Mi. He had 
not come. When he did come, he would counsel them about 
saving Natolie. 

Myra sat by the sobbing and excited girl until almost midnight. 
Then, as Mi had fallen asleep, Myra left her to her maid, and 
returning to her own room, put on a long white wrapper and 
threw herself on her couch. In an instant she slept heavily. 

Mi’s terrible story and excitement had proved the culmination 
of Miss Barth’s late distresses. True to its old propensities, her 
turbulent brain refused to rest with her body and bound it in 
sleep to its will. Once again Miss Barth rose in the night, and, 
haunted by her past, she wrapped a large white shawl over head 
and shoulders, and passed out into the night along that road 
which had led to disaster in other days. Under the faint light 
of a rising summer moon, tall and stately and unearthly, she 
moved along. 

It was between twelve and one. A carriage was waiting for 
Tony, his wife and Natolie, and the two conspirators had carried 
Natolie from Doctor Wrigley’s house, and were hurrying with 
their light burden along the lane irom Clematis Villa, which 
crossed the road to the reservoir. 

At the lane’s end was the carriage. 

Mindful of his former adventures in this spot, Tony was looking 
warily about, when his eyes fell on the sleep-walker. His teeth 
chattered. His frame shook. His eyeballs glared wildly. Clammy 
sweat rolled over him. He gasped as for breath. 

“ The ghost ! The ghost !” he faltered. “ I have seen it twice 
before ! This is my last call ! I shall die !” 

He dropped his end of the burden, and his wife, thus arrested, 
looked frantically about. 

The white, mysterious figure moved steadily nearer. 

Tony flung up his hands. He yelled madly : 

“Ghost! Good ghost! Mercy! Have mercy! Spare me 
— spare me — and take my wife /” 


286 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


But using his feet to as good purpose as his tongue, Tony was 
already well up the road. 

Mrs. Tony, thus left as her husband’s substitute to the tender 
mercies of the awful ghost, dropped her end of the burden they 
had been bearing, and, in raptures of terror and rage, moved her 
long legs up the road at a prodigious rate. 

This violent action soothed both her passions. It took her 
farther from the ghost and nearer to Tony. Now she is run- 
ning neck and neck with him, and vengeance cannot be denied. 

One vigorous twist of that muscular arm, and she stretches 
Tony flat, screaming at him : 

“ De’il take you, Tony Pettigrew ! Will ye give your lawful 
wife into the clutches of a ghost, ’stead of yourself? Not while 
I knows it, Tony !” 

But this fierce racket of tongues and feet, of strife and terror, 
aroused the sleep-walker from her slumbers. Myra looked about. 
Overhead the sky of summer night. Yonder the flying figures, 
raising mad clamor. At her feet a dark, silent, motionless 
something. 

But Ailsa Wallace had detected her lady’s absence. 

Hale and active at sixty years, Ailsa had pursued and overtaken 
her foster-child. 

“ Bless your dear heart, my precious lambie !” says the withered 
old nurse to the stately woman, soothingly. “ It ’s a braw night 
or a walk ! Why didna ye call me to come ?” 

Then she saw that dark mass at Myra’s feet, and bent to 
uncover it. 

“ Gude save us a’ ! What is this in the mid road ? A murdered 
woman !” 

Myra stooped down and turned the white, inanimate face up to 
the summer moonlight. 

It was Natolie Idria ! 

‘‘Take her up, Ailsa,” said Miss Barth. “Lift her head and 
carry her with me. God grant we may get her safely to the 
shelter of my own roof!” 

Ailsa lifted the still figure, murmuring: 

“ She ’s deed !” 

They hurried toward Barth House, and at the portico found 
Doctor Brice just stepped from his gig, and standing uncertain 
under the night-sky. 


DIPLOMACY. 


287 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

DIPLOMACY. 

The first day ot July hung in sultry heat over London. The 
English can endure any amount of cold, fog, sleet or rain, but they 
wither under a blaze of sunshine. Every one who could leave 
the metropolis had fled. Those who remained kept within doors 
if they might, or, forced abroad, crept languidly along the shady 
side of streets. The thoroughfares wore a deserted look, almost 
as if the Great Plague had revisited the capital. 

So thought the Contessa Idria as the door of the hospital 
closed upon her, and left her in the world of toilers once again. 

“ Good-bye,” said the porter. ‘ ‘ I wish you well." 

And then the contessa again faced London — penniless. 

She had had a few shillings in her pocket when she fell, those 
weeks back, in the terminus, but somewhere — at the station, or 
as she was carried in the litter, or at the hospital — public charity 
had despoiled her, and she stood without one farthing. 

Her hair was grayer than when she lived in Bird-Cage Walk, 
her eyes more sunken, her cheeks more hollow, her shoulders 
somewhat bent. She looked perfectly the lady still in the black 
silk hastily put on for that fatal midnight ride, the bonnet of 
Tuscan straw trimmed with a black-lace vail and the handsome 
shawl, unsuited to the season, but which with the chill from long 
illness did not feel too warm. 

She came out of the hospital with the same purpose which 
had been hers weeks before. She must find Mr. Mellodew and 
beseech him to search for her daughter. The way was long to 
Temple Inn, and she was feeble; but she reached at last the 
knightly old court at law. The birds were singing and the roses 
were blooming in the old historic garden where York and Lan- 
caster had plucked symbolic flowers. 

Nothing lured the attention of the contessa. One idea filled 
her mind — her daughter — her stolen daughter ! 

With weary feet she climbed the dark and dusty stair and 
entered Mr. Mellodew’s office. 

“He has been abroad, ma’am, on important business for some 
time, but we look for him every day." 


288 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


Without a word, the contessa returned to the street. Her 
strength was failing her. Suppose she should again fall ill? 
What would become of Natolie? 

She must go to Miss Barth. She recalled Myra, strong, rich, 
calm. She would help her. 

But Barth House was miles away. She could never walk there, 
nor could she beg the money for fare. 

Her eye fell on her shawl. That solved her difficulties, and 
she went on, looking for a pawnbroker’s. 

“’Alf a p’un’,” said the woman in charge. 

“ I desire to sell it. I do not want it back.” 

“ Twelve shillin’.” 

“ Why, it cost twenty pounds !” 

“ No one will care to buy it — old-fashioned. Twelve shillin’.’ 

“ I must certainly have a pound.” 

The woman shook her head. 

The contessa thought : Suppose Miss Barth were away from 
home. She must have a few shillings to live on until Mr. Mellodew 
came back, and she could go and see to her things left in 
Bird-Cage Walk. She moved to the door. Slowly the harpy 
of trade rose to the required amount, and the contessa came into 
possession of a pound. 

She stopped at a restaurant for a cup of tea, and then went to 
a cab-stand for a cab. Poverty made the contessa acute in deal- 
ing, and she let the cabbies wrangle it out among themselves 
until she had secured a hansom for five shillings. 

Not being engaged by the hour, cabby rattled along as fast as 
the law allowed or a little faster, and at last they stopped before 
the broad portico of Barth House. 

Contessa Idria !” cried Miss Barth, springing eagerly to 
meet her, and pressing her gently to a seat as she remarked 
her exhausted state. 

“ Miss Barth, I came for help. I have lost my child — my 
Natolie — my all ! Help me to find her !” 

“ I am sure it will be easy,” said Miss Barth. 

“ Alas, no ! It is almost two months, and I have not the 
faintest trace of her ! Alone, helpless, all this while !” 

“ I am certain she is safe. Indeed, I can assure you of it.” 

“ What !” cried the contessa , clinging to her. “ Do you know 
anything of her 1” 


DIPLOMACY. 


289 


tc She is safe.” 

“And where, where can I find her?” 

“ You will not need to go far,” said Myra, handing her a 
glass of wine. “Take this. Be composed. As soon as you are 
composed I can show her to you. She is at present here in my 
keeping.” 

“ And unharmed ?” gasped the contessa. 

“ Unharmed, except that, like yourself, she gives signs of illness 
and anxiety and sorrow ; but I feel sure, as soon as you are restored 
to each other, health will also be restored to you both.” 

“ At once take me to her. Oh, Miss Barth, consider — two 
months — two long months of separation ?” 

Miss Barth gave the contessa her arm, and led her to her own 
room. The apartment occupied by Natolie opened from this, and 
Miss Barth had not only had the door, leading to the hall, locked 
and barred, but she had had the bed moved against it, so that no 
access could be had to her protegee except through her own room. 
The doors between the two were open and the silk curtains that 
filled the doorway were looped back. 

Miss Barth signed to her companion for silence, and pointed 
through the door. 

Natolie, dressed in white, which Mi had decorated with pink 
ribbons and rose geraniums, lay on a low couch before a window. 
Mi knelt beside her, holding her hand. She was speaking. 

“ Look happier, darling Natolie. Miss Barth is seeking every- 
where for your mother. She has advertised; she has instructed 
the police. Mr. Mellodew will soon be here, and he will help in 
the search. Doctor Brice is looking through all the hospitals and 
asylums. She will soon be found, and you will be content.” 

“ There is Rupert, too,” said Natolie. “ Oh, Mi ! We were 
so nearly married that we went to the church for the ceremony, 
and the rector missed the hour, and all this time we three have 
heard nothing of each other.” 

“ But he will be found,” insisted Mi. “ Every one and every- 
thing is found in its own time. You were found, and Lady Bide- 
bank’s will is found, too. I found that — and all is Rupert’s. Once 
we get him back, why, there is that nice little fortune for you and 
Rupert and your mother; and all the Bidebank jewels.” 

Miss Barth left the contessa and stepped near Natolie; 

“ I have good news. Will you guess it?” 


290 


A SLEEP-WAITER. 


“ My mother !” cried Natolie. 

“ She is safe. You shall be united as soon as you can calmly 
bear such fortune.” 

‘‘Now, now, this minute!” cried Natolie. “Where is she? 
Oh, mamma, mamma !” 

Miss Barth might have intended a longer preparation, but the 
contessa frustrated it. She could not resist her child’s cry. She 
hurried into the room, and flinging herself by her daughter’s side, 
covered her face with kisses. 

Miss Barth turned her face away and half smiled. 

“ Joy never kills,” she said. And then a shadow swept across 
her face, and she murmured, bitterly: “Nor does sorrow nor 
long years of repressed agony.” 

She called Ailsa Wallace, placed a reclining-chair beside Nat- 
olie’s couch, for the contessa, and holding hand by hand, the 
mother and daughter looked into each other’s face, and neither 
could let the other go, while Ailsa hovered around, ministering to 
both ; and Mi, crushing horrible suspicions of what part her father 
had had in this villainy, tried to encourage both patients, distract 
their minds from their late troubles, and undo the evil. 

During the few days that Natolie had been in Myra’s care, 
only Mi, Ailsa and Doctor Brice had seen her or knew her 
name or story. Now, with two guests and invalids in her keep- 
ing, Miss Barth knew that the household must learn or suspect 
something, and at evening worship she resolved to cast herself 
upon their faithfulness. 

Before she opened her book she looked along the hall. 

“There is not one of you,” she said, “who has not been 
with me for years. Yours are all familiar faces and faithful 
hearts. To-night I cast myself with confidence on your truth to 
me. In all the world I have no protector but myself and your 
faithfulness. I have in this house two guests, who, I tell you, 
have come to me for refuge from an enemy and from foul 
wrong. I mal^p no charges, but I want no strangers admitted to 
this house, arf& no questions asked nor answered, even if the 
questions come from those who claim rights here and are accus- 
tomed to acquaint themselves with the business of this family.” 

“ She means Sir Wrigley,” said the cook to the footman. 

“ Wrigley will never get anything out of me,” said the house- 
keeper. 


diplomacy. 


291 


“Let him meddle here,” quoth the butler, “and I’ll let him 
know that he ’s no more rights in Barth than any other man. I 
wish to goodness the house had a master and an heir, to spare 
us him coming about.” 

They none of them gave any sign to Miss Barth of a deeper 
comprehension of her meaning; but the Barth doors were kept 
closed, and the servants were alert day and night, and no news 
got to James Wrigley. 

That night, Myra Barth, when she had seen her guests safely 
sleeping and had let fall the curtains between the two rooms, 
laid before the astonished Ailsa a handsome revolver. 

“ Gudeness save us !” cried Mistress Wallace. 

“Now, Ailsa,” said Myra, “no one shall come and interfere 
with or carry off the Idrias. I don’t know what I may expect, 
and here is this revolver. I am a sleep-walker, and I dare not 
keep it in my reach. You are to put it near at hand where I do 
not know, but where you can give it to me, if I want it, when I am 
broad awake.” 

And as we do not desire to paint anybody better than he 
is, we will admit on behalf of Ailsa Wallace that there did then 
and there come into her harassed mind a wish that “ Maister 
Wrigley ” would undertake a nocturnal kidnaping arrangement, 
and that, by grace of this revolver, to use her own speech, “ that 
unco’ vicious mon would be put in a lawfu’ way out o’ reach o’ 
further harmin’ o’ Christian people.” 

Ailsa did not approve of quarreling with Providence, but she 
really felt that Wrigley was being allowed to live too long. 

While the contessa and her daughter, restored to each other, 
were regaining health and cheerfulness in the care of Miss Barth, 
Wrigley felt that he was rid of them forever. 

At the hospital he had been assured of the contessa's death. 
Not daring to give her name, he had merely described her 
disease, general appearance and date of admission, and a mistake 
had been made. He believed her dead. 

By much maneuvering and some false swearing, he had secured 
in the Northern Asylum admission for one free patient. Now, 
free patients are of so little importance that no one inquires after 
them if they fail to arrive. It is supposed that they are otherwise 
provided for. 

Tony Pettigrew and wife dared not tell Doctor Wrigley that 


292 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


they had dropped their important trust within half a mile of his 
own door, and had not found it again. Tony vowed that he had 
delivered up the insane person, according to order, and had taken 
a voucher thereof from the asylum doctor, but had dropped his 
pocket-book, with said paper, in a river which he had crossed. 

To be consistent, he urged Wrigley, in addition to the pay 
originally promised, to make up to him the loss of the pocket-book 
and its contents. 

Mi had, however, recognized Mrs. Tony as the keeper of Nat- 
olie. Natolie remembered well that she had heard the man who 
had been her jailer called twice Tony Pettigrew. 

Myra notified, therefore, the police to keep an eye on those two 
miscreants, intending, when Mr. Mellodew returned, to have 
them arrested. 

“Dearie, dearie,” said Ailsa Wallace, “ dinna do it. They 
twa didna’ wark wi’out a principal, an’ mebby it may hav’ been yer 
ain cousin Wrigley.” 

“ I cannot help it,” said Myra, “ such outrageous and dastardly 
deeds shall not go unwhipt of justice. Let Wrigley suffer. I believe 
he knows where Rupert is, and he should be forced to tell, and to 
tell why he has pursued that boy.” 

“Dearie, dearie,” urged Ailsa, “still dinna ye set yon ugly 
tongue a-clackin’. ' Ye canna tell what sic ill faur’d carls will 
say. He may get a hintin’ o’ a hunnerd ill things better kep’ 
silent.” 

“ I cannot help what he says or charges !” cried Myra, desper- 
ately. “ I am weary of my life, pursued by this villain. Let him 
say what he likes.” 

“ Weel, dinna act in haste,” said Ailsa. 

And the next day she went to the city, found the Pettigrews, 
told them they were suspected and must get out of the country. 

They had no money with which to go. 

“Hide, then, fast,” said Ailsa. “I ha’e some siller in the 
han’s o’ Mr. Mellodew, ance he comes hame. I ’ll gi’e ye sixty 
p’un’ o’ that an ye will leave Englan’. Ye could mak’ mair if in 
yer wan’erin’ life ye had come across young Maister Rupert 
Barth, an’ could tell whaur he could be foun’. Lady Bidebank’s 
will has come to licht, an’ he ’ll be rich as soon as ever one can 
lay han’s on him.” 

And away went Ailsa, little conscious of how deeply she had 


DIPLOMACY. 


293 


set this precious pair thinking. The news being a joint capital, 
they must use it together; and they began to put into the part- 
nership various important fragments of knowledge and suspicion 
which had fallen to them. 

During this time Wrigley had once or twice written to Mr. 
Mellodew; inquiring into his plans, on the plea of protecting Miss 
Barth from excitement or sudden shock. As the notes were per- 
fectly civil, Mr. Mellodew, while he execrated Wrigley and his 
meddling, felt finally constrained to answer them, and stated 
that he and Jasper Fitzroy would go to the London Tavern, 
where he would remain until Miss Barth was prepared to have him 
call upon her. All this waiting, writing, questioning — with none 
of which Miss Barth had had to do — had been a sad damper on 
Jasper Fitzroy’s spirits ; he was blue and miserable to a marvelous 
degree. After all, what right had he to expect love or even 
warm friendship from this woman — this enormously wealthy, this 
self-reliant woman — to whom for years he had been becoming a 
dimmer and dimmer memory. 

Privately informed by Wrigley when and where Fitzroy might 
be found, Ailsa had that day gone to London to await him. 
Mr. Mellodew had telegraphed to Miss Barth that he himself 
would wait upon her the morning after his arrival. 

Jasper Fitzroy, taking refuge in pride, and anxious that Mr. 
Mellodew should not suspect him of hopes that were never to be 
realized, had covered his anxieties and his love with coldness ; 
and the lawyer finally made up his mind that Fitzroy was not 
coming back in any fashion as a suitor, but as a man discouraged 
with life. 

To such a man went Ailsa Wallace two hours after he had 
reached his native shore. 

“ Dinna ye ken me ?” said Ailsa, bracing herself for her loathed 
task under an assumption of cheerfulness. “ I ’m Ailsa Wallace, 
as was nurse and foster-mother to Miss Barth. I ’m unco’ glad 
ye are safe fra captivity, Mr. Fitzroy. I made bold to come and 
congratulate ye.” 

“ Thank you,” said Fitzroy, and, looking at her wistfully ; 
“it is Miss Barth I must thank for my rescue.” 

“ Aye ; an’ ye were always pretty good frien’s,” said Ailsa. 

“ We were more than friends,” said Fitzroy. 

“ Weel, mebby sae. It ’s o’er lang to remember sic, an’ folks 


294 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


grow aulder an’ grow awa’ fra each ither sae lang as they dinna 
meet. Ye are gey changed, Mr. Fitzroy, and Miss Myra wouldna 
ken ye .” 

“ I dare say not,” said Fitzroy. “ Is she well and happy ?” 

“ Aye. She has naught to wish. She has all heart could ask. 
Ye ken, Maister Fitzroy, there are some women as are aye weel- 
fitted for a single state, an’ she is ane o’ them. She lacks noth- 
ing.” 

“ Yes,” said Fitzroy, quietly. 

“ An’ ye ken, sir, how I loved her, an’ do yet ? I have watched 
her lang. She ’s unco’ honorable an’ firm to her word, gude or 
ill ; please or displease, she wad keep her word. But it is na 
fair to hold they folk to do what is ill to theirsel’s. Ye ken that, 
sir. Eif she waur pressed to keep the word she passed till ye sae 
lang syne, she might do it. But it wadna be sae weel for her. 
Ye wadna do her an ill turn ?” 

“ I shall not press her to recall the past,” said Fitzroy. 

“ Frien’s she is, now an’ always, wi’ ye,” said Ailsa. “ She is 
mair than glad to hear ye are safe. As ye said, she it was that 
sent ye rescue. Ye wadna repay it with doing aught as might 
disturb the peace o’ her days ?” 

“No, I would not,” said Jasper. “ And she need not have sent 
you, Ailsa, to plead this with me. I am not one to force myself 
on her. I shall not even see her until she sends for me. I see 
too well the difference between Miss Barth and a poor man, long 
a slave.” 

“ She didna send me,” said the alarmed Ailsa, “ and ye winna 
tell her I was here, Maister Fitzroy ? I cam’ my lane because I 
saw what was weighin’ on her mind, and I ha’e her guid at 
heart.” 

“ I also have her good at heart, and I shall not disturb her. 
It is true, in so many years one may forget, or go from love to 
friendship — or even indifference. If she no longer loves me ” — 
His face grew ashen and haggard, and Ailsa was cut to the 
heart. “You tell me, Ailsa, that she no longer loves me ?” 

Ailsa would have deemed herself the worst form of a mur- 
derer if she had said : “Yes, she does not love you.” It would 
have been to murder the man’s heart, and she could not be guilty 
of the wickedness. 

“ I didna say that, Maister Fitzroy. I canna say it.” 


DIPLOMACY. 


295 


“ It was what I understood from you, at least.” 

i 1 1 dinna ken what to tell ye, Maister Fitzroy, only to impress 
on yer mind, knowing as I do my lassie better than ony one, that 
her life and her happiness will be fair ruinit if you ask her to marry 
ye. It canna be. She will be bound to tell ye sae, and it will grieve 
her tenner Heart. Dinna ye see, sir, if she didna lo’e ye, nor feel 
for ye, she could say ye nay, as easy as mony a jilt maid ? Take 
it for yer comfort, sir, she does lo’e ye weel ; but things have 
happened sin’ ye went away that have no’ left it in her power to 
marry, and ye will be merciful an’ not make the trouble waur nor 
it is. She doesna now look for ye to do or to be more than the 
auld friend, friendly like.” 

“ Perhaps I had better not see her at all,” said Fitzroy. 

“Indeed,” said Ailsa, cordially, “mebby ye better hadna. If 
on’y way ye could manage it — or to see her only in a roomfu’ o’ 
people.” 

“That will be better, for I cannot trust myself with an oppor- 
tunity to tell her what her memory has been to me all these years 
and that now she is dearer than ever.” 

“ I ’m wae for ye,” said Ailsa, wiping her eyes, “ and na doubt 
if I had the arranging o’ affairs for awhile, I ’d clear a way to 
things goin’ easier. But wae ’s me, Ailsa, and mony anither weel 
intendit person maun take the warld as they fin’ it.” 

“ Let me understand you, Ailsa. You have come, as Miss 
Barth’s friend, and knowing all her affairs, to urge on me the 
necessity of not resuming the old relations between us ; you feel 
sure it would not be for her happiness ?” 

“It’s just that; ye always was clear headit, Master Fitzroy. 
It ’s just that, an’ ye ’ll be min’fu’ o’ it !” 

“Yes,” said Fitzroy, with a sigh, “ it is what I had feared and 
expected, and you may be sure I shall not trouble her, Ailsa. 
Let her life go on peacefully, for all me.” 

And then Ailsa went back to Barth House, hating herself as 
Wrigley’s ally, and Myra’s enemy, even in all that she had 
done for Myra’s benefit. 


296 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

A MIDNIGHT ENCOUNTER. 

“I can’t make him out at all,” said Mr. Mellodew, next day, to 
Myra. “He seems gloomy and distrait, and he is, indeed, very 
different from what he was the first day or two after his rescue. 
Perhaps you can manage him better than an old fellow like 
myself; but really he should have been out here before now. He 
positively waits for an invitation !” 

The lawyer had been with Myra for an hour, reporting his trip 
and insisting on going over all his expenditures and exhibiting all 
his accounts. 

This had been torture to Myra, but she had concealed it. 

“ I think,” continued the lawyer, “ Fitzroy feels keenly the dif- 
ference in your fortunes. Once you were on a par in that respect. 
Now you are enormously rich, and he is poor. He must be 
humored a little. You will request him to come out here?” 

“ You will please bring him to-morrow,” said Myra, faintly. 

But if she longer discussed Jasper she would lose her self- 
command — that empire for which she had so long fought such a 
tremendous battle. 

She rose, opened the panel in the wall and took out Lady 
Bidebank’s will. And then there was a long story to tell the law- 
yer. First, all that she had learned from the Idrias of Rupert 
and his life, and of the interrupted marriage. 

Next, the strange fortunes of the Idrias, their kidnaping and 
heir final rescue. 

Then, the various facts, each pointing a steady index-finger 
toward Wrigley. 

Then Timmy Titlow’s singular hints. 

And, finally, the life-long proofs of Wrigley’s knowledge of and 
hatred of Lady Bidebank’s adopted child. 

The lawyer leaned back in his chair, looked fixedly at Myra, 
joined the tips of his forefingers, contracted his brow and got 
a fleeting glimpse of the true inwardness 01 affairs. 

“ This Titlow must be seen and made to tell what he knows,” 
said Mr. Mellodew. 

“ He says he cannot tell— not unless a man named Sam Porter 
rises from the dead.” 


A MIDNIGHT ENCOUNTER. 


297 


“ Then he shall tell promptly ; for said Sam Porter I brought 
back to England with me. He is Fitzroy’s servant that I 
mentioned to you.” 

All this discussion of affairs had filled up the day. 

A servant had brought in a tray of luncheon, and Myra and the 
lawyer had 'still talked on, and now the afternoon was waning, 
and it was nearly dinner-time. 

“The Idrias,” said Myra, “are safe in my care. We must 
find Rupert, give him his bride and his little fortune. They have 
all been terribly treated, and I feel that vengeance should fall 
on their enemy — whom I believe to be Wrigley. And yet — he 
is my kinsman — Mi’s father and my heir.” 

“ What an absurdity to call him your heir ! He is more than 
ten years your senior. His son might inherit after you if you had 
no direct heirs. But Wrigley! You’ll outlive him by years.” 

“I look at myself,” said Myra, rising and deliberately placing 
herself before a long mirror, “and I seem a living proof that 
long and bitter sorrows, a continued battle, are a spring of 
strength and life, as storms root and invigorate trees.” 

She and the lawyer both looked at the image in the glass as 
if at a picture. 

The lawyer thought that here was Fitzroy’s grand compensa- 
tion for his long disasters. 

Myra compared herself with the girl — buoyant, impulsive, 
headstrong — with whom Fitzroy had parted. 

The secret which she had for these years been carrying in her 
heart and defending from all the world seemed to have chilled 
her external nature into a great calm and strength, but the fire 
burned yet within. 

“ I shall be back to-morrow,” said Mr. Mellodew. “ I have 
much to attend to in the city, and cannot stay another instant. 
To-morrow I will come and bring Fitzroy.” 

The day had been a most exciting one to Myra. The lawyer’s 
description of Jasper’s adventures, his sufferings and the effect 
they had had upon him, had been most graphic. 

The portrait which he drew of Fitzroy was so different from 
her memory of him ! He had left her, young, ruddy, hopeful, 
ambitious, a lithe, athletic boy, she said now in her middle 
age ; and now he was represented to her as silent, resolute, 
Spartan in courage, bronzed and gray. 


298 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


Then, too, her account of Rupert and the Idrias, the mysteries 
which enveloped them, her own share in their adventures, had 
greatly perturbed her. 

Inflexible justice said that Wrigley deserved punishment, and 
yet there was the tie of blood —there was Mi — there was the 
secret. 

Must the storm at last fall, from which she had so long 
shrunk, cowering? 

She called herself a coward. Let there be an investigation. 
Let truth be known and right be done. But how, alas? From 
every gipsy camp and robber den in England might rise up 
spurious heirs of the fortunes of Barth. 

And Myra was a womanly woman, and it is hard for a woman 
to be dragged forth to stand pilloried before suspicion and accusa- 
tion and curiosity. 

The housekeeper had been seized with fainting that evening, 
and desired to have Ailsa Wallace remain with her for the 
night. 

Miss Barth, whose peculiarity it was to seem most calm when 
she was most disturbed, appeared that evening so very calm 
that Ailsa, who had of late been sleeping on a cot by her lady’s 
door, felt it safe to leave her. Ailsa was also quieted by the 
pledge which she had received from Jasper and by the return of 
Mr. Mellodew, who, she made sure, could set all things right. 

Mr. Mellodew, on reaching the city, went to London Tavern 
to tell Jasper that next day he was to accompany him to Barth 
House. 

Jasper, however, had found the day long, and his own reflec- 
tions bitter, and he had gone abroad. 

The lawyer left a note for him to meet his return. 

Sam Porter also had shared Mr. Fitzroy’s anxious feelings, 
and had also wandered off in London. 

The return to England had revivified Sam’s memories of his 
wife and his home. Hardly knowing where he would go, he 
still made his way to the place where he had lived, and arriv- 
ing in the old neighborhood about the time of the evening 
meal, he found one or two of his former acquaintances. From 
them he heard all the story of his wife’s last days, and the 
place of her burial. He learned, too, that Dame Chitton yet 
lived, and where she might be found. 


A MIDNIGHT ENCOUNTER. 


299 


It was too late to go to Paddington that night, but Sam visited 
the churchyard where his wife had been laid, and lingering about 
the spot as long as he could, he made up his mind not to return 
to London Tavern that night, but to walk over to the reser- 
voir, see his ancient acquaintance, Timmy Titlow, and then 
in the morning go to visit Dame Chitton. 

Sam, lagging and lingering over each spot filled with memo- 
ries of his early life, did not reach the reservoir until long past 
midnight. 

Jasper Fitzroy was possessed by the same spirit of unrest and 
the same powerful memories, as the companion of his exile. 
After roving about London for a time and taking his supper at a 
restaurant, he, too, was insensibly drawn by the attraction of his 
earlier haunts and, before he was aware, found himself on the 
road toward Barth House. 

He could at least see the home of Myra. 

He could retrace, in the silent night, the places where they 
had walked and talked. He could stand by the gate where they 
had parted, for so long, alas, forever ! 

He could walk along the road which he had so often travelled, 
toward Fitzroy Towers — the ancestral home — his no longer. 

And so our pilgrim, returned from exile and finding himself 
unwelcomed, and with no longer a niche left for him in the old 
life, was as one returning from the dead, when mourning and 
loss have become a habit to those whom he left behind. 

But the same scenes which filled the mind of Jasper filled 
also the mind of Myra; they pursued her in her sleep, and while 
Jasper was really pacing in painful round the old-time places, 
she was revisiting them and conversing with Jasper in her 
dreams. 

Jasper finally arrived at the gate where they parted when he 
turned his face from Barth to go to the India docks, and set sail 
for the empire of the East. Here they had wept together ; here 
they had vowed undying faithfulness; here they had parted; 
and yet again and again returned to claim each other’s hands, 
and look into each other’s eyes. Oh, blissful — oh, miserable 
hour ! 

Then, at least, they had been faithful and fond. 

He leaned upon the gate and groaned. 

He lifted up his face — and, lo ! The visions of other days 


3°o 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


had taken shape, and were moving toward him, silent and slow, 
through the July night. 

The broad shield of the summer moon, halfway up the heaven, 
flooded her with light. 

That soft silver radiance poured on her face restored her girl- 
hood; it softened the shadow of care and long watchfulness; it 
lit her waving bands of hair with the golden sheen of youth ; the 
eyes looked straight before her, as he had often seen Myra’s 
eyes fixed in meditation. It was she — his love, his idol, his 
long-lost Myra — coming toward him through the night ! 

On — on, she moved, soundless in the moonlight, and between 
the tall white lilies, her favorite and symbolic flower, and in the 
glamour of that witching illumination, it seemed as if she were 
some angelic creature, and that the lilies, her attendants, moved 
in procession behind her as she came. 

At first he thought the picture was a figment of his own excited 
brain. He had never heard that Myra was a sleep-walker. 

For one moment a chilly fear smote him that she was dead, and 
that here was her spirit bidding him farewell. Mechanically he 
unlatched the gate, and stood between the guarding pillars. 

She came steadily on, giving no sign of recognition, but 
straight to him , until, under the muslin of her white robe, 
he sees the heaving of her chest, and saw her white arms gleam- 
ing through the netted shawl which she had flung about her. She 
was within his reach, and love did not delay to reason. He 
clasped her closely in his arms ; he kissed her face ; he cried : 

“Myra! My Myra! My own once more !” 

That roused her. 

She had known nothing of this tall and stalwart figure stand- 
ing in her path, bronzed and bearded and somewhat gray. But 
she knew his voice. 

She had no time to question or doubt or recall her fears. All 
her heart was in her tone as she flung her arms about his neck 
and cried : 

“ Oh, Jasper — my Jasper !” 

And then for a few moments they were incoherent. Jasper 
murmured that she was “ the same as ever ” — “ dearer than ever ” 
— “lovelier than ever.” And he told her he had pined for her 
all these years. How he had believed that she was married; and 
of late he had fancied that she had forgotten him. 


A MIDNIGHT ENCOUNTER. 


301 


And Myra said in answer that she had mourned for him ; that 
until she heard that he lived she had worn widow’s weeds. 

Then, standing there, Jasper’s arms clasping her, Jasper’s voice 
in her ears, the past rose up before Myra as a horrible specter. 
That long Joneliness, the agony of the solitary keeping of that 
haunting secret which had held her always on the defensive ; 
that long hiding of her mystery which had made her reticent and 
cold. She could bear it no longer. Here was one who would 
believe her, one who could understand her. Better, far better, 
to tell Jasper all. Better that he should know the truth than 
that he should surmise a thousand horrible things far from the 
truth. He ^eemed to her a tower of strength. 

“ Jasper,” she said. “ I have a terrible story to tell you.” 

“Tell me anything,” said Jasper, “except that you have 
grown cold to me.” 

“ I could not tell you that,” said Myra, simply, “ for it would 
not be true. This I have to tell you is true, and it will make 
you dread me.” 

“ Never !” returned Jasper. “ Never !” 

“ Come, then, to the house, to the library. It seems as 
if I should die if I keep silent longer over this dreadful thing. 
I have feared to speak to any one.” 

They moved along toward the house. 

“ I do not know where to get in,” said Myra, suddenly, “ for 
I do not know where I came out. It must have been at the west 
door nearest my room. That door opens quietly.” 

They found this west door open, and Myra led Jasper to the 
library and lit the gas. 

Then she told Jasper the long-hidden story. Told of her 
letters to him, of the distraction which she felt when she thought 
she might not be able to fulfill her pledge to him. Of her 
jealousy to Elizabeth’s child — her secret disappointment that 
it had lived — her constantly returning idea that it would be 
better for it to die ; and of that horrible night when the little one 
disappeared. 

“ I am sure I took it from the house,” she said. “ I dreamed 
that I flung it in the reservoir. No child was ever found in 
the reservoir; but the watchman was sure he saw a woman 
throw a baby in there. But a man who pretended, or did know 
all about the child, declared he found it lying in a field. I can- 


302 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


not tell what I did with it. But I do feel that I cast out of his 
inheritance my father’s heir ; and either the child, through my 
means, has died a miserable death or has grown up morally mur- 
dered in vicious surroundings. I have stood here amid all this 
wealth, feeling it cruelly gotten and most unjustly held. I felt 
that the wrath of God was on me, and that if my fellows knew 
the truth they would execrate me. But I could not confess it, for 
what had I to confess? Or what end would it serve unless the 
boy were found? And I have tried to find him all these years. 
And now, Jasper, hate me and leave me, for, before God, I am 
a murderess !” 

Myra was weeping bitterly. The morbid terrors and self- 
accusation of her life were having their way. 

“ Nonsense !” said Jasper, stanchly. “ This thing must be 
cleared up, unraveled. Courage, my dear. Does any one know 
or suspect this but yourself?” 

“ I think my cousin Wrigley suspects it, or knows something. 

I was threatened by him once — but I put on a bold face and 
threatened him in turn ; and Ailsa Wallace knows it, I feel sure.” 

At that instant the library door opened, and Ailsa Wallace 
looked in, to see Myra in her favorite seat — her father’s chair — 
and Jasper in another chair drawn close to her side and facing 
her as he held her hand in his. 

Ailsa’s involuntary exclamation drew the attention of the pair. 
Mistress Wallace, having been to her lady’s room to see how she 
was resting, found that she was gone. She had hurriedly 
searched for her in the grounds, and along the fatal road, and 
not finding her, returned to rouse the servants to the search, 
when the murmur of voices in the library and the reflection of 
light called her thither. 

“ Ailsa, come here,” said Jasper Fitzroy, looking about. “ Miss 
Barth tells me that you believe that she got rid of her little 
brother by flinging him into the reservoir, or some such fashion !” 

“She didna ! She didna !” cried Ailsa. “My lambie, hoo 
can ye say sic a thing? An’ she did, she waur asleep, and she is 
as innocent as a babe new born. Lassie, why will ye tell sic tales 
o’ yersel’ ?” 

Ailsa had come to Myra’s side. 

“And she says,” continued Jasper, “that Mr. Wrigley be- 
lieves the same thing of her.” 


A MIDNIGHT ENCOUNTER. 


303 


“ He ’s a wicked, brawlin’ demon !” retorted Ailsa, sinking on 
her knees by Myra. “ He hates my lassie, an’ he aye stan’s wait- 
in’ to snatch her bonnie fortune. Ay, he tellit me she flinged the 
bairn in the reservoir, an’ he ’d declare that same to you an’ to 
the warl, sir, ‘gif she intendit to marry. Evil gang wi’ him ! 
But I tellit him / was the ane wha cast out the babe. Ay, an’ 
I did , and I ’ll hold to it an’ hang for it ! Nane shall say me 
nay ! Dinna ye believe her nonsense, Maister Fitzroy. It was 
me, and Ailsa Wallace did the deed, and now let the worst come.” 

“ Oh, Ailsa, Ailsa,” sobbed Myra, “what a love is this — that 
for me you would take shame and death !” 

“And fearing this threat, Ailsa,” said Fitzroy, “you came to 
me, warning me that I must not think of making love to your 
young lady ?” 

“ Has Ailsa been to you ?” cried Myra. 

“For your gude, lassie, to shield you from harm.” 

“You meant well,” said Jasper, breaking into a smile. 
“ ‘ Greater love hath no man than this that a man should lay 
down his life for his friends.’ But you took a very wrong way 
to do her good, Ailsa. What Miss Barth needs is a strong arm 
to protect her, a clear brain to unravel her difficulties, a tight 
grip laid on that villain’s throat ; and this help shall be hers, too.” 

At this moment heavy steps stumbled up the front portico 
and a rousing knock sounded on the door. Jasper sprang up to 
answer. 

“One instant!” said Myra. “Jasper, wait. The Idrias! 
Ailsa, my revolver !” 

Ailsa flew to her mistress’s room, and as she came down with 
the weapon, the butler, who had lately taken to sleeping, half 
dressed, in the hall cloak-room, came out, and Jasper bade him 
open the door. 

As the door flew back Timmy Titlow’s honest person, some- 
what bent and carrying something, entered — and Jasper beheld, 
under the flaring lamp which the butler lifted above his head, 
the rugged face of Sam Porter, who aided Timmy with what he 
carried. Straight to Myra, standing in the library threshold, 
marched Timmy, and laid his burden at her feet, saying, with 
satisfaction : 

“There ; you said bring him to you any hour, day or night, my 
lady, and there he be!” 


3°4 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


And the coveted blanket being turned back, there lay Rupert, 
white, still — drenched. 

“Out of the reservoir /” cried Timmy, with great pride. 

Myra sank on her knees by the boy she loved ; passed her hand 
over his dripping black locks, and kissed his face. 

“Fly, Ailsa!” she cried. “ Fly and spread blankets on the 
nursery bed. Timmy, carry him up after Ailsa. Jasper — Jasper, 
go help them restore him ! Rub him! Quick, some one — brandy 
— camphor — hot water !” 

Up rushed Ailsa to the nursery, the nearest bed-chamber, 
and flung on the- couch two great blankets. 

Up went Timmy and Sam, carrying Rupert. 

Up went Jasper, seeing here was a life to be fought for and 
saved. 

Up went the butler, armed with restoratives. 

The men stripped Rupert, laid him in the blankets, and began 
a vigorous rubbing and doctoring. 

All of Jasper’s mind was not thus absorbed. 

Who was this, and what complication was this ? 

Shortly Myra came to the door. 

“ Titlow,” she said, “go to the nearest telegraph station, and 
send for Doctor Brice and Mr. Mellodew to come at once.” 

“ Sam,” said Jasper, “you stay here.” 

“ Who is that ?” demanded Myra. 

“My servant and fellow-captive, Sam Porter.” 

“Timmy ! Timmy !” cried Myra, to Titlow, who was leaving 
the room. “ Now you will tell all you know about Rupert.” 

“ Aye — I will come the morn !” declared Timmy. 

Myra had approached the bed, where only the head and throat 
of Rupert were visible above the blankets. 

She bent her face close to him to listen to his breathing. 

A look of perfect amazement came over Jasper Fitzroy as he 
saw these two faces together. 

“Great heavens,” he said to himself, “is the world blind! 
Man ! Telegraph for two policemen in plain clothes, I think we 
may need them.” 

Titlow disappeared. 

Still Jasper watched the face of Myra, bent near to Rupert. 

During the past year the boy had changed to the man. His face 
had settled into maturity. 


A MIDNIGHT ENCOUNTER. 


305 


A dark brunette, now that his eyes were vailed under their lids, 
he looked less dark. 

His face was smooth as that of his sister bent over him. He 
had her chin, the; curve of her brows, the beauty of her forehead. 
Chilled in unconsciousness, the whole countenance had the 
statuesque calm of.the face that had so long studied to show itself 
inscrutable to the world. 

“Who is this young man ?” demanded Jasper. 

Ailsa intervened. 

“He is dropping into real sleep, dearie,” she said to Myra; 
“he will be better the noo.” 

Myra moved back from the bed and withdrew to the opposite 
side of the room with Jasper. 

Rupert Barth seemed to have completed the circle of his 
adventures. They had been a little over twenty-one years in 
circumference. He had this night been drawn out of the same 
reservoir into which he had been flung as a child. 

He had been carried back to the home whence he had been 
taken as an infant. 

He was lying in that same nursery where he had spent the first 
weeks of his life. 

All this Myra did not know. 

In a soft monotone she told Jasper all that she had known. 
The story of Rupert and of Natolie Idria was poured into his ear. 

“And now, Jasper,” said Myra, “if he will only live, he 
shall come into his inheritance; he shall be united to his bride ; 
he shall see better fortunes. I love the boy — I have loved him 
from a child. I have often wished that I could make him, 
instead of Wrigley, my heir.” 

“You shall make him your heir,” said Jasper, suddenly. He 
beckoned to Sam. “Porter, tell us how this happened.” 

“ Why, sir, easy enough. I strolled, about an hour or two 
ago, to the reservoir, to see my old crony Tim. Just as I came 
up the bank, I see walking round the top, slow and wavering and 
stumbling like, a figure. Ail at once it rolled over into the water. 
At that same minute in jumps Tim, who had come running along 
the basin edge, and then I in after him, and between us we got 
the young man out. After we found he wasn’t dead, Tim cries : 

* I know him ! He belongs, dead or alive, to Miss Barth.’ And 
so we trotted him over here, post-haste.” 


306 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“Dearie,” said Ailsa to Myra, “come rest in this big chair 
a bit, gif ye winna gane to bed. Ye ’re wearie.” 

“Yes, Sam and I will go below now,” said Jasper. 

And Myra, seated in the great chair beside the bed, felt that 
the burden of her life had somehow rolled away, and slept 
calmly beside the sleep of him for whom she had lost many an 
hour of rest. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE HEIR AND HIS OWN. 

“Mr. Fitzroy,” said Sam Porter, as he and Jasper entered a 
down-stairs room, “as we were rubbing yon young man, I see a 
curious mark on his leg — an ace of hearts. Sir, you mind I told 
you how my Jane’s own child died, and we — God forgive us — 
cheated her with another babe that, all dripping wet, had been 
laid by a big dog at my feet ?” 

Jasper sprang up, hardly daring to breathe. 

“Well, that's the very child growed to a man ! The pretty little 
ace o f hearts Jane doted on as her own !” 

Jasper clutched him by the arm. 

“Porter, who besides you knows this?” 

“Why, Dame Chitton, my mother-in-law, over to Paddington 
Almshouse. She do know it all.” 

“It is four o’clock,” said Jasper. “Come out with me to the 
stables, and I will rouse up a groom and send you over to Pad- 
dington, and do you bring the old lady here in short order.” 

It was curious that while the entire Barth household had resented 
every word or suggestion that came from Wrigley, they one and 
all accepted with alacrity the orders of Fitzroy, a man who had 
dropped into their midst in a night. 

Before five o’clock Sam Porter was on his way to Paddington 
in a gig. 

Morning rose brilliantly, and there was a gathering of clans 
at Barth House. Came Doctor Brice first, and declared that he 
would soon show Rupert into the regions of health. 

Then Myra told to the contessa and Natolie the rescue of Ru- 
pert ; and Natolie, glowing with joy, went as a young Hebe to her 


THE HEIR AND HIS OWN. 


307 


lover’s side, restoration in every look of her face and tone of her 
voice. 

Came two policemen in plain clothes, and while not explaining 
themselves very' clearly, after a consultation with Fitzroy, they 
were established in a private room and mightily breakfasted on 
bread and beer, as befits the giants of the north. 

Came Mr. Mellodew, and meeting Timmy Titlow in the hall, he 
fell vengefully upon that innocent being and declared himself 
capable of dealing terribly with him if he did not then and there 
deliver up all his secret knowledge of Rupert. 

Timmy manfully responded that the secret was Sam Porter’s, 
and that Sam could tell it if he liked — in fact, no doubt Sam 
would tell it ; and Sam was not far off. 

“ He will be here soon,” said Fitzroy, rushing upon the scene, 
“ and, meanwhile, I have his secret. Ha, Mellodew, things are 
coming round right, I promise you !” 

Miss Barth returned from her own room to Rupert’s chamber, 
where Ailsa was in charge. Natolie was sitting by the bedside, 
her elbows resting on the coverlet, her dimpled chin supported 
on her palms. Heedful of Doctor Brice’s warning that she must 
not talk to Rupert of distressing things, she was recounting only 
what was pleasant. The finding of the will ; the kindness of 
Miss Barth ; their future prospects. 

“ And you have not been to Italy? And you and your mother 
never wrote me dreadful letters ?” said Rupert. 

“ No, to be sure not,” smiled Natolie. 

“ It drove me wild,” said Rupert. “ I determined to emigrate. I 
got my little money from the bank, and I paid for my passage to 
America. I meant to go to New Mexico. And then I fell ill, 
and went out of my head, and meanwhile the ship sailed and 
left me.” 

“ Blessed ship !” said Natolie. 

“And then I was very weak from illness, and must have been 
wandering in my mind, and I was drawn by memories of this 
place, where we played as children, and I went by the lodge 
where you used to live, and I remember, too, going into the 
Barth woods, and by the primrose dell, where first I saw you, 
Natolie. And I do not recollect how I got to the reservoir, but, 
led by old associations, I suppose, and then from weakness I must 
have stumbled in.” 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


30& 


“ Well,” said Miss Barth, “ think no more about those trying 
things. Doctor Brice says that all you need to restore you to 
perfect health in a few days is good care and good company. I 
will be responsible for the first, and Natolie will provide the 
second.” 

Meanwhile Jasper Fitzroy and Mr. Mellodew had heard all that 
Timmy Titlow had to say, and were comparing notes, when, 
casting his eye out of the rear window, Fitzroy saw what he was 
pleased to consider a suspicious couple creeping up to a side- 
door. Presently Ailsa Wallace came in and said, hurriedly : 

“ Maister Fitzroy, some strange folk are speerin’ for me.” 

“ See them,” said Fitzroy. “ I remember, Ailsa, there is a 
little room with a lobby opening from it. See them there, and 
I will go up to the lobby.” 

Ailsa’s visitors were Mr. and Mrs. Tony Pettigrew. They had 
put together their knowledge and their guesses, and had con- 
cluded that Rupert was the lost heir of Barth. They deter- 
mined to sell out this piece of information for the highest price 
possible and aid to escape the country. 

As each of this delectable pair was sure that the other was 
prepared to make individual terms and fly alone, they came to- 
gether to make their bargain. So much honor is there among 
thieves ! 

“We’ve a secret,” said Tony, “ which is worth all your whiles 
to buy. We can sell it either to your leddy or to young Mr. 
Rupert. If we sells it to he, why your leddy will lose all her 
fortune. If she buys it, she can use it when she likes. It will 
give her the whip hand over Mr. Wrigley, as thinks he ’s her heir.” 

“ I canna see intil yer meanin’,” said Ailsa, looking bewildered 
at one and the other. “ But ye canna cheat old Ailsa Wallace. 
I wasna born wi’ me eyen blin’ as a puppy. Ye ’re unco’ weel 
disguisit, but I saw ye in the city nane sae mony days gang. 
Ye ’re Tony Pettigrew an’ his wife.” 

“ And you know you were to give us sixty p’un’ as soon as 
Mr. Mellodew got home, so we would leave the country quiet,” 
said Mrs. Tony. 

“I ha’e changit my min’,” said Ailsa. “ It wad cost a deal’ 
to send ye awa’, sic a gait, when the police has their eyen on ye, 
an’ the coort is all ready to sen’ ye awa’ free o’ chairge.” 

“ What would your mistress be willing to give if we could tell 


THE HEIR AND HIS OWN. 


309 


her where to find the child that was lost twenty-one years ago ?” 
asked Mrs. Tony. 

“ The chile I” cried Ailsa, thrown off her guard, her whole face 
lighting up with joy. “ Oh, she wad gi’e onything ! / wad gi’e 

onything, gif ye can make me sure !” 

“We might tell the young man himself,” said Tony, “and 
I make no doubt he would give us heavy pay, for it would put 
all this big estate in his hands. But if we sell the secret to you 
or Miss Barth, why, done is done, and we will not tell him.” 

Now Tony’s idea — not knowing where Rupert was— was to get 
a thousand pounds from Miss Barth for telling her , and subse- 
quently another thousand from Rupert, when he came to light, for 
telling him ; for it never occurred to Tony that Miss Barth would 
at 6nce reinstate the real heir. 

“ What for s’uld ye not tell him ?” said Ailsa, scornfully. “ Ye 
wad ha’e na cause to tell him, for my leddy wad leave na stone 
unturned to fin’ him and strongly pit him intil his richts.” 

At this statement Tony winked openly and incredulously, and 
Mrs. Tony put her tongue into her cheek. 

“ Speak yer min’ an ye ha’e ony,” said Ailsa, tartly. 

“ So, then, five hundred pounds in hand, and a sworn word to 
send us five hundred more in a month’s time, and to keep them 
two ladies from prosecuting — them ’s our terms,” said Tony. 

At that instant Tony and Mrs. Pettigrew each felt a hand grip- 
ping them, and trying to twist away, they found themselves in the 
grasp of Jasper Fitzroy, behind whom loomed two policemen. 

When Mr. Pettigrew and his wife were well secured, Jasper 
Fitzroy dispatched a messenger to Clematis Villa to tell Wrigley 
that he was wanted at Barth House. 

When Wrigley arrived, he was ushered into the library, where 
he looked blackly at finding Myra and Jasper Fitzroy seated at 
a table, bending over some papers. He needed no introduction 
to Fitzroy. He bowed so stiffly, even insolently, that Fitzroy said: 

“ Probably you have forgotten that before I went to India 
there was an engagement of marriage between your cousin and 
myself. I have now the honor of telling you that as soon as 
arrangements can be made for the wedding, your cousin will 
crown my happiness with her hand.” 

“That is impossible !” cried Wrigley. “ It cannot be !” 

And why ‘impossible?’ She is of age to choose for herself, ” 


3io 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


“ It is impossible ! She shall not marry ! She dares not marry ! 
I forbid such a proceeding !” 

“And by what right ?” asked Fitzroy, coolly. 

“ She knows by what right. She knows what crime is hers. 
How does she hold this estate? How did she purchase Fitzroy 
Towers? Myra Barth, I charge you with the crime of murder ! 
You took your infant brother from this house and drowned him 
— yes, drowned him yonder in the reservoir !” 

Myra set her lips and turned white, although Jasper had 
assured her that he had proof that the lost boy was alive. 

“ And why,” thundered Fitzroy, “if you knew of such a mon- 
strous crime, have you concealed it for twenty-one years ?” 

“She — was — my cousin,” said Wrigley, quailing. 

“ Scoundrel ! It was because you knew that the child lived ; 
because all your attempts to compass his death had failed; 
because you were sure that if you pleaded this charge that not 
only your case would probably be too weak to be established, or 
that it could be proven that she did the act unconsciously ; and 
that, to crown all, the investigation would bring forth the true 
and living heir.” 

“ I could prove the case,” said Wrigley, falteringly. “ I had a 
witness — ” 

“Whose name is Tony Pettigrew,” interrupted Jasper. “I 
had him arrested this morning. But, sir, we sent for you on 
behalf of two ladies who have an affair to settle with you.” 

As Jasper raised his voice the door opened, and the contessa 
entered with her daughter on her arm. 

Before these two women, one of whom he was sure was buried, 
the other whom he was equally sure he had locked in a lunatic 
asylum, Wrigley tottered and grew white. He saw, moreover, 
behind the ladies, the figures of the policemen. 

“ I charge you,” said the contessa , “with having, by a fabricated 
tale, inveigled from our home and then most wickedly impris- 
oned my daughter and myself. By which proceeding we were 
injured in health, narrowly escaping with our lives after severe 
illness — my daughter having been a prisoner for two months, 
hidden from her intended husband.” 

“And in behalf of Rupert Barth, adopted son of Lady Bide- 
bank, I will mention,” said Mr. Mellodew, ’stepping in, “that 
you wrote him three several forged letters, calculated to injure his 


THE HEIR AND HIS OWN. 


3 ii 

health and prospects, and which did so damage him in an ex- 
treme degree.” 

tc And for all these -crimes you must answer at the bar of your 
country’s justice,” said Jasper Fitzroy. 

Wrigley looked wildly about. A ringing came to his ears; 
blood and fire seemed to dance before his eyes ; a quivering 
seized him. He rallied all his forces and stepped toward Myra. 
He whispered in her ear : 

“ You can crush this charge. If, for you, they will be silent, 
then I will not move that matter of the loss of the child — and,” 
he gasped, “I will not oppose your marriage. Silence them.” 

“You could urge a stronger claim,” said Myra, calmly — “the 
distant tie of blood and your relation to my poor adopted 
daughter, whom to-day I sent away to spare her your shame. 
As for that charge about the child, I prefer to meet it franklv and 
fully.” 

Wrigley writhed. 

“Woman,” he hissed in her ear, “ hark you. If you do not 
silence these people, before heaven, I will set in these halls the 
long-lost heir of Barth, and divest you of this enormous fortune 
of which you boast yourself! Think, your whole fortune is at 
stake — a word from me and you are beggared.” 

Jasper, close to Myra, had heard the words. He spoke out 
loudly, electrifying not only Wrigley, but Myra, Ailsa and the 
Idrias. 

“ Don’t trouble yourself. That lost heir of Barth at this instant 
is safely asleep upstairs under his own roof, and we have no better 
wish than to see him master of his own.” 

Wrigley reeled. Lost ! Lost ! That frantic strife was nearly 
ended. That terrible game was almost over. He breathed hard, 
but battled still. He turned upon Fitzroy. 

“ Prove — ” he began. 

“ Stop !” said Jasper. “James Wrigley, you charge that Myra 
Barth, on such a night, at such an hour, went from this house, 
carrying Rupert, the infant son and heir of Sir Giles Barth and 
Elizabeth, his wife, and that she threw that child into the reser- 
voir ?” 

“Yes, I do; and I will prove it.” 

“No need,” said Jasper, coolly. “It is granted. A sleep- 
walker does singular deeds. Timmy Titlow, you are prepared 


2,12 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


to swear that on such a night as Doctor Wrigley has stated, 
and at about the same hour, you saw a woman of Miss Barth’s 
general figure throw a babe into the reservoir ? But, on searching 
the basin, within ten minutes, the babe could not be found?” 

“Ay — I ’ll take my oath on all that,” said Timmy. 

“ And you, Sam Porter, are prepared to state on oath that, 
on this same night, at this same hour, within a few minute, a 
large black dog, dripping with water, laid at your feet a babe, 
newly drawn from the water, which babe, for certain family 
reasons, you asserted for your own ?” 

“ Ay — I ’ll swear all that,” said Sam. 

“ And, Sam Porter, you and your mother-in-law are prepared 
to swear that this babe bore a peculiar mark?” 

“ Ay, a black mole, like an apple-seed, between the knee and 
ankle — a mole standing out from the flesh.” 

“Had the Barth child such a mark?” asked Fitzroy. 

“ Yes. I can testify to that,” said Doctor Brice. 

“ And so can I,” said Ailsa Wallace. 

“ And what occurred to this mark?” asked Jasper. 

“Doctor Wrigley, knowing the whole story of the child’s 
coming into my hands,” said Sam, “cut the mark off.” 

“And I stanched the blood with soot, and it left on the leg 
a little black heart, and we called him the Ace of Hearts,” said 
Dame Chitton. 

“ Where is Tony Pettigrew?” demanded Jasper. 

The policeman pushed Tony and his wife into the room. Mr. 
Mellodew, taking up the question, elicited all that they knew of 
Rupert — his adventures and Wrigley’s connection therewith. 
Dame Chitton and Myra testified to Lady Bidebank’s adoption of 
the child, the episodes of the baby-farmer and the truancy, and 
also to his baptism and training at Bidebank. 

Tony and Timmy identified Rupert Barth, to whom they had 
been escorted as he lay upstairs, as the same Rupert Barth of 
these incidents ; and Dame Chitton and Sam swore to the mark, 
the ace of hearts. 

The chain of evidence was complete. 

“Not one crime, but many,” said Jasper Fitzroy, bending 
black brows at the quivering Wrigley. 

Wrigley looked at the door; he unclasped his hands from the 
chair on which he leaned; he seemed to have thought of flight, 


THE HEIR AND- HIS OWN. 


313 


But at this instant he dropped to the floor. Paralysis had struck 
him from his loins downward. If it had struck his brain he 
might have been spared something of his punishment. He was 
carried home. 

At once the news seemed to fly abroad that the heir of Barth 
was found, and that the money-brokers on whom Wrigley had 
lived, upon his expectations, came upon him and stripped him 
bare. As he lay prostrate, Clematis Villa was emptied and sold 
out, and the house was sold over his head. 

Tony Pettigrew and his wife were promptly tried and con- 
victed and sent to the penal settlements, while the principal in 
their crimes lay held by a stronger justice than man’s. 

Rupert Barth asserted, in which he was supported by friends 
and legal advisers, that his estate had prospered in his sister’s 
hands, as it never would have done in his own ; and he settled 
upon her and her heirs the entire property of Fitzroy Towers. 

“And we never can go live in the little house at Hackney !” 
cried Natolie to Rupert, as preparations were going on at Barth 
for two bridals. 

“ The dear little house at Hackney !” exclaimed Rupert. “ It 
looked to me the very gate of paradise ! Let us go there and live 
a little while, 'just to see how it seems.” 

“ Never mention it,” laughed Natolie. “ That small house in 
Hackney, however she might try to conceal it, was a thorn in my 
dear mother’s flesh. She fancies I fit better in such magnifi- 
cence as this — and as soon as she gets a few bits of hereditary 
silver out of that house at Hackney she will never desire to hear 
from it again. But we would have been happy there together, 
Rupert.” 

“ Happy everywhere together,” asserted Rupert, confidently. 

“ And, Rupert, let us get the best good we can out of that 
house. We worked in it so hard together I want it to do good to 
some one. Let us give it as it stands to Mi’s sister Jane, who 
was married lately. It will please Mi, and just suit Jane— and if 
that horrible Wrigley dies, there will be somewhere for the widow 
to shelter.” 

And before the summer ended the wedding bells pealed joyfully. 
The proud and happy contessa saw her beautiful daughter installed 
in a home worthy of her birth and grace. All Barth House re- 
bounded with festivity and jubilant life, amidst which Rupert 


3H 


A SLEEP-WALKER. 


and Natolie were just as sincerely and simply happy as they 
would have been in that little house in Hackney whereof fate 
to them had closed the door. 

And Fitzroy Towers was Jasper’s home once more. There 
Mi lived with Myra, and Jasper found that his Mauritian ven- 
tures had rolled him up a fortune suitable to the splendid estate 
conferred by her brother upon his bride. * 

Timmy Titlow, leaving at last his nightly rounds at the reser- 
voir, retired on a competency secured by Rupert, while Sam Por- 
ter and the aged Dame Chitton kept the pretty little Lodge at 
Barth gates. 

But, singularly enough, James Wrigley began to recover; the 
use of his limbs slowly came back to him — came back better than 
others guessed. Beggared and disgraced, trial for enormous 
crime hanging over him, he covered in his breast the torments 
of lost souls in the pit of perdition. 

What should be done with him if he finally recovered? was 
the question which distracted the friends of his children. The 
day drew near when he and his wife must leave the bare walls of 
Clematis Villa, where, with a single servant supplied by their 
son, they had been lurking. 

The problem solved itself, as many a problem will, in the slow 
but tireless progress of human affairs. 

While peace and abundant prosperity shed sunshine over the 
long-persecuted heir of Barth, and before, at Fitzroy Towers, 
Ailsa Wallace went nearly wild with joy at receiving into her 
arms a Fitzroy heir — the man has gone. 

He escaped from his house in a tremendous winter storm, to 
go where, who could tell? Beaten by sleet and wind and rain, 
he dragged his feeble and failing limbs in flight, until he reached 
the spot where the lane from Clematis Villa crossed the road 
from Barth, and there he fell, and there they found him stark 
and stiff, an anguish of terror printed on his face, his hands 
clutching the frozen mire of the way; and a coroner’s jury gave 
him back to those who privately buried him, with this verdict: 
Died by the visitation of God. 


THE END, 


A Sequel to “A Skeleton in the Closet.” 


BRANDON COYLE’S WIFE. 


BY 

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH, 

Author of “The Hidden Hand,” “ The Unloved Wife,” 
“ Nearest and Dearest ,” “ For Woman's Love,” 

“ Gloria,” “Em,” “ The Lost Lady 
of Lone,” etc. 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY HARRY C. EDWARDS. 

12mo. 350 pag-es. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


This novel is a continuation and conclusion of Mrs. South- 
worth’s delightful story, “ A Skeleton in the Closet.” Every one 
who followed the fortunes of the hero and heroine of that book 
will be gratified by the way in which their lives and histories are 
worked out and the guilty author of all their misfortunes finally 
brought to grief. It is a pathetic and moving story, full of de- 
lightful incidents and full of the charm of deep and pure love. 
All readers of “ The Hidden Hand” and “Unknown” will be 
pleased with these beautiful novels. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A French Detective Novel. 


THE FROLER CASE. 


BY 

J. L. JACOLLIOT. 


Translated from the French by H. O. Cooke. 


# • 

ILLUSTRATED BY A. W. VAN DEUSEN. 


12mo. 230 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


This story is a characteristic French detective novel, equal to 
the best of Gaboriau’s. The plot is laid in the Central Office of 
the Parisian police, and the victim of the murder is at the head 
of the detective bureau. The boldness, the mystery and the ob- 
stacles in the way of the escape of the perpetrator of the crime 
lend themselves to produce a deep and thrilling interest to every 
page and phapter of the novel. There are no detective stories so 
good ns the French, from which all our American stories of the 
kind are modeled. “The FrolerCase” is the work of a past- 
master in the art, of whom the author of “The Leavenworth 
Case ” might take lessons. There is nothing exaggerated or im- 
probable, and no failure to keep the movement of the story brisk 
and exciting. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cqr, William and Spruce Streets, New York, 


A New Novel by Mrs. Lewis. 


TRESSILIAN COURT 

BY 

MRS. HARRIET LEWIS, 

Author of “ Her Double Life ,” “Lady Kildare f “The 
Haunted Husband f “Old Life's Shadows ,” 

ILLUSTRATED BY A. W. VAN DEUSEN. 

12mo. 316 pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


Many requests have been made for the publication in book form 
of this delightful story, one of the best which Mrs. Lewis ever 
wrote. It is a European story, the scene being laid in England 
and on the continent, and, as in many other of Mrs. Lewis’s books, 
the interest centers in the fate of a young nobleman, gifted, gen- 
erous and rich. F ew authors have ever possessed the story-telling 
faculty in greater perfection than Mrs. Lewis. No one can take 
up one of her books without becoming interested. In all her 
numerous writings she never produced anything more interesting 
and charming and perfect than “ Tressilian Court ” and its sequel, 
“ Guy Tressilian’s Fate.” 

I • 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A Sequel to “ Tressilian Court.” 




GUY TRESSILIAN’S FATE. 


BY 

MRS. HARRIET LEWIS, 


Author of “ Neva's Three Lovers,” “ Ed da's Birthright,” 
“ Beryl's Husband,” “ Edith Trevor's Secret,” “ Cecil 
Rosse,” “ Beatrix Rohan,” “ The Bailiff’s 
Scheme,” “ Sundered Hearts ,” etc . 


ILLUSTRATED BY A. W. VAN DETJSEN. 


12mo. 320 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


“ Guy Tressilian’s Fate” is the continuation and conclusion of 
that remarkable novel, “ Tressilian Court,” by the same author. 
It should be read in connection with “Tressilian Court” to be 
thoroughly enjoyed and appreciated. It forms with that novel 
one of the best of Mrs. Lewis’s works. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A Fine English Novel. 


REUBEN FOREMAN, 

The Village Blacksmith. 

% Newel. 

BY 

DARLEY DALE, 

Author of “ Fair Katharine ,” etc., etc . 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY WARREN B. LA VIS. 

12mo. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. Paper 
Cover, 50 Cents. 


All admirers of Jane Austen’s painstaking and truthful studies 
of English life, replete with fine touches of character, description 
and humor, will read the story of “The Village Blacksmith” 
with unmixed pleasure. The portraits of the Rev. Ryot-Tempest 
and the widow, Mrs. Jamieson, are so well done that they move 
through the work like living persons. The characters of Reuben 
and his daughter are also exceedingly successful, and the story in 
which they play such important parts is so well kept together and 
worked out, that our interest in them is real and our desire for 
their vindication and happiness is passionate. This novel is very 
ably written and very original in its types of character and in the 
treatment of religious and moral questions and feelings which 
give strength and intensity to such works as “ Robert Elsmere” 
and “David Grieve.” It is far above the average English novel 
in interest. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


One of Mrs. Southworth’s Best. 


ONLY A GIRL’S HEART 


BY 

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTH' WORTH, 

Author of “ Unknown” “ The Unloved Wife,” “ Nearest and 
Dearest,” “Gloria,” “David Lindsay ,” “ The Lost 
Lady of Lone,” “ The Hidden Hand,” 

“‘Em,'” “‘Em’s’ Husband,” “For 
r Woman’s Love,” etc. 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY HUGH M. EATON. 


12mo. 453 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


“Only a Girl’s Heart” is a most delightful story, containing 
charming pictures of society in the South and womanly charac- 
ters of great beauty. There is a charm about all of Mrs. South- 
worth’s novels, quiet and unpretentious and long-drawn out, as 
many of them are, which holds the reader’s attention and makes 
life a holiday. They are pleasant books for an idle day 
at home or a traveller’s holiday abroad. The illustrations by 
Mr. H. M. Eaton are excellent, and add to the beauty and inter- 
est of the book. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York, 


THE LEDGER LIBRARY. 




1 

1 —HER DOUBLE LIFE. By Mrs. Har- 
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V. * . \ 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York City. 













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